With the Rain That Fell Gently

With the rain that fell gently

on the trembling veil

of the paddy field,

a tender rice sprout

pushed through

the wet skin of the marsh

to draw a breath anew.

And the delicate heart of the grain,

in the green womb of the plant,

beat hurriedly—

troubled by

the longing for a birth

that came too soon.

**With the rain that fell gently**

on the proud heights of the forest,

a narrow gutter carved itself

from the grooves of leaves,

so crystal-clear drops

could fall,

one by one,

upon a quiet bush below,

reaching upward

in hope of the tree’s kindness

and the soil’s moist affection.

With the rain that fell gently

on the mane and shoulders

of the open plain,

the golden wheat

began to dance with joy—

eagerly drinking

from the cool clarity of water

to soothe

its parched and aching root.

And at last,

the bare and silent earth

dressed itself

in flowing robes

of newborn leaves.

With the rain that, now and then,

fell from the sorrow

held in your eyes,

the joy of forest and field

slipped

into the land of forgetting.

The moments came—

slow and difficult—

and the flame of life,

once bright and bold,

fled quietly.

Only the soft hush of your gaze

could tear apart

the tender skin of loneliness

and lovingly take in

the thirsting pain

that longed to become a poem.

Arsalan, Tehran

May 30, 2025