Bejan Baran/Diaspora
Perhaps, some day,
a sunny day,
on the sidewalk, down the street
filled with pigeons
...
Between two sycamore trees,
Grandma slowly appears -
with a persimmon in her right hand
and a pomegranate in the left.
She puts ‘m in my pockets.
Holds my right hand,
drawing circles on my palm
with her pointing finger, saying:
Gily gily houzak.
Morqak umad a’b bokhore,
Ofta’d tu houzak.
Then, counting my fingers,
Starting with the little finger, saying:
In goft daresh biya’rim.
In goft bekoshimesh.
In goft bepazimesh.
In goft bekhorimesh.
In goft sahme mane kaleh gondeh ku?
Morqak par zad, sare golboteh neshest.2
Closed my eyes, she put her finger on my nose.
She slowly disappeared.
*
Opened my eyes, I see my sister, running to the house.
*
Oh, my little sister!
You're so lucky, going back home.
You'll find new friends -
boys and girls.
I'm sure, you'll have fun
to put your new clothes on,
walking with ma and pa,
visiting folks you know.
Everyday, getting up
to face new faces -
who will adore you.
You leave behind
your brother -
all alone in a foreign land -
and your friends
who can't share school secrets with you.
You pick up the phone and call Joan.
It is her birthday -
and yours too.
She has a gift for you;
but can't give it to you,
for you are no more her neighbor.
You ask her about other kids.
*
Overhearing your talk,
a volcano builds up in me
overflows at the top
drops of fire on my face.
*
Why leaving friends behind?
Why can't we stop the time?
When do we see 'm again
if we ever see 'm again?
When can we say things we used to say
when do we whisper or cry?
Perhaps, some day,
a sunny day,
on the sidewalk, down the street
filled with pigeons
a familiar face flashes up in the crowd
bringing you into the labyrinth of memories.
Perhaps, some day,
a rainy day,
reading the paper by a foggy window,
you 'll see a familiar name.
Life is a train of memories
receding in a foggy course.
*
Now the call is over,
you run to pa and ma crying;
and I load up the trunk
with your baggage.