Birthday ( زادروز )

 

The waiting clock
congealed on the wall,
yellow seep of memories
dripped from the garbage bin.

Crusts of stale bread
rotted on the floor,
a raven,
perched on the sagging clothesline,
pecked hungrily
at the crumbling corner of the wall.

The roof’s heavy droplets
hammered the stone floor,
and the mirror,
veiled in thick dust,
saw neither face nor shadow.

A presence,
without a doubt,
rushed through the room.
The grimy window
lost its color,
the floral curtain
shivered in the wind.

The stale stench of time
escaped through the vent.
Warm hands
stole the cold from a weary face,
while a dark nightmare
slipped from the bed
and fled beneath.

The wind still swirled,
scattering restless snowflakes,
growth, if any,
spiraled deep
within root and stem.

Then, a whisper—
perhaps—
brushed the ear:

Winter, once more,
has reached its middle.
Rise—
your rebirth has dawned,
my friend!

Arsalan – Tehran
February 16, 2025