The old year
has come to an end;
the air of becoming new
can still
be breathed.
The news is abundant—
in the dignity of waiting
for blossoms
that struggle
with the winter wind.
Winter,
it seems, is a season
when the ground is cold
and the heart
remains warm.
Your heart finds calm
when the Yalda omen
delivers its promise:
that the world
will not remain
this way forever.
The garden,
weary of daily plunder,
stands hopeless—
and fears
the fruit-pickers of tomorrow.
Time
cannot be turned
backward;
another age has arrived,
a generation
of a different color.
A mixture of
song and pain—
even tears
are not enough
when the price of us
is bitterly paid
by our children.
No one reads
tomorrow’s newspaper,
though the writings
are countless.
What we once wrote
in hints,
in secrecy,
they now read aloud
with naked cries
in the streets.
How should one sing
when words
fall behind
the reading
of your children?
One might say:
love is no longer
a whisper
between two;
it flows
through every corner of the city.
From the belief of exile,
the new year
cannot be greeted
in advance;
yet
may the new time
be kind to you.
Arsalan – Wiesbaden
January 8, 2026
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