🌿 If Autumn Spared( اگر خزان امان داد)

 

If autumn spared,

whenever in the hush of your reverie
you peek into the winding storerooms of my dreams,
embrace the child
who stands as tall
as the one I used to be —

perhaps he may be freed
from the rubble of a silent sob
that wets
his tiny pillow
each night.

A child
as young as the fish in the marsh,
tired of the violence
that laps at his world,
flails
on the glazed edge
of the courtyard pool.

And every night
in dreams
smoky as the stove's exhaust,
he sees a line —
etched like cuneiform —
the scorched trace of a bullet
carved
into the wooden school bench,
still carrying
the scent of camphor.

If autumn spared,

then perhaps the dawn —
that wolf-grey mist —
has finally arrived.

A child,
pure as all children,
has tied his hopes
to a drifting piece of cloud,

sits beside the wall,
waiting.
He has made a vow:
Ash from the farewell pot
offered for grandma —
each day anew.

Yet the old tree's branch,
worn thin
from barren ribbons of prayer,
trembles —

and autumn, too,
has
given up
on mercy.

Arsalan – Tehran
April 24, 2025