The Secret of the Sixties

To the last days of my thirties

But I!

Neither a product of love nor pleasure

A seed 

Of my timelessness.

In those moments of struggle, of them together,

“No!”

“You must!”

Neither love was in it,

Nor conscience,

Nor passion.

Me, I am a product of infinite lust and eternal violence,

Nailed to the tall wall of denial.

And I wanted to cry out,

The secret embryo that hung in the gallows.

On the hottest day of the year,

They flogged a youth

In the busiest square in the city.

I ran

Hours without a drop of hope,

Feet blistered,

Body aching, dizzy.

I wanted to throw myself at the feet of lust

To learn the violent secret of the garden flower

To stop punishment for those who deny Mohammad

To keep the narratives of killing embryos with me.

But, 

As I was trapped in the desert

Caught in strong desire

Fever, fever and I hate the heat

The stories of the maids for lazy circumcised women

And the desire of circumcised men 

Came to mind.

Warmth, passion, and sleepy amaryllis flowers

In the hands of the girls selling flowers

Confused in bumpy highways

And I, in this heat, in this desert, in this thirst,

Rub my hands against my crotch,

And the verses of Mohammad,

And the smell of the rose water,

Come to my mind.

I am the product of war

The war of the sixties. 

Wandering in the forest of lust

Violence between the thighs at night

And senseless wrath by day

Thick moustaches and childbirth years

Days of miscarriage and weeping nights

I, 

Moments among the sycamore trees, I hung and I ran,

Childlike, womanly, and drunk

And the holy book gave fire to the ashes.

The sycamore trees and I,

Together we shed our skin,

History of the flower garden’s struggle

And the uneven friction of bodies afflicted by war.

The sycamores and I were disturbed;

The sycamores by the wind,

And me by the stirring of autumn leaves murmuring.

The war still drove on, 

The thirsts from the city.

And me

And embryo that was me, 

And the war,

Together

In the middle of the cold night,

We came into the world in Esfand 61, 

Not love, not lust, not conscience,

And we

Products of the loveless years,

Without pain and without thirst give birth.

The war

And the secret of the sixties 

We hang in our stomachs

To narrate beautifully 

The stories of the bodies nailed on the tall walls without history.

And I and we,

Continuously bear fruit

With our bodies engraved on the sycamore trees. 

2012, Paris