She carried
her white dream
the cloud—
nurtured in belief
that this time,
fully,
from a bundle of blossoms
it would pour
upon the bare crown
of a tree
that had borne
the winter’s nightly fear
without haste.
In the stunned gaze of the bird
a drop of joy
settled into doubt—
as though
a message
from the unripe dawn of a bud
was sealed
inside its beak
and riding
on the multicolored hem of the breeze,
it passed
across the plain.
The garden
was still yearning
for a song in green,
as the soil’s dark hue
was being undone,
and with each image
of a message-bearing dove
on the horizon,
the doors of the house
opened—
eagerly.
Alas, each time
within the poem’s hidden soul
a silent lump of grief
would slip—
troubled by a bitter interpretation
creeping out
from the deepest corner
of dreams long gone—
and once again
faced
the nightmare of waking.
The cloud
collapsed
beneath the waiting gaze of the river.
A spring of dread
ran dry.
The heart of the plain
quivered
with a pulse of thirst.
And her white dream—
Spring,
unannounced,
wrapped it into a satchel
and tiptoed
past the mountain’s stunned silence—
and fled.
Poet: Arslan
Tehran – April 6, 2025
