Seven Cities of Liberation

 

The road is arduous,
And the weary feet of companions falter,
Stumbling, countless times.

The heart,
Yearns for a spring,
Flowing from the sun’s resplendent flame,
Spiraling within the slender veins of the vine,
Dancing, as golden daughters of the grape,
Entwined in the tender embrace of green stems,
Rise in a mystic trance.

The soul, too,
Brims with the ecstasy of love,
As luminous and pure as the milky way,
Gleaming in the abyss of night,
Or the nectar drawn from earth’s boundless breast,
Breathing life into every tender leaf,
Awakening the newborn trees.

Reason, it seems,
With celestial wings of thought,
Races toward the fierce valley of wisdom,
Freed from the shackles of time and space,
Brushing against a sky,
That still,
In the weary faith of dust,
Shelters the shattered vessel of the soul.

The soul, however,
Unbound by existence or oblivion,
Rises at dawn,
As acacia and jasmine petals,
Drenched in dewdrops of the night,
Unfold from their slumber.
A poem of intoxicated verses,
Tinged with the fervor of Shiraz’s mad poets,
Drunk on words,
Bound within their own spell.

Reason and heart,
In awe,
Each time,
Like Mansur,
Cry out the sacred "I am the Truth,"
Longing to taste the beloved’s essence,
To stain the earth’s wounded flesh,
With the color of liberation,
To cast a beam of light
Upon the shadows of ignorance,
To lead the soul,
Through the well-worn valley of annihilation,
Toward the radiance of dawn.

The path is, without doubt, arduous,
And false roads,
Without end.

Arsalan – Tehran
March 3, 2025