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Dying in Varanasi – Poetry from Iran

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Dying in Varanasi – Poetry from Iran
Varanasi, India

Nazanin Rahimi

Nazanin-Rahimi-Iran-Poet-Sindh-CourierBorn on June 29, 1972, Nazanin Rahimi has Master’s degree in ‏Clinical Psychology from Payam-e-Nour University, Tehran and Bachelor of Art in ‏Drama from Azad Islamic University, Tehran branch. She is a freelance writer and poet and author of poetry collection books including ‘Surviving the black city by a little girl like you’; ‘Black eye Little shout’; ‘It is like the wind has gone’; ‘The growth of Sha’mdani underneath my window’; ‘Calm down, darling!’; ‘I feel like happiness’; ‘We are contemporary with the river’ and ‘I have taken sheltered in a suitcase’. She has also authored over 30 articles on different topics including psychoanalytic literary criticism, poetry and fine art. Nazanin is art-therapy & theatre-therapy instructor.

Dying in Varanasi

 -Anyway, we must accept that

To justify anything

There should be a scientific explanation-

And for loving you

I take shelter in this poem

Some people go to Varanasi to die

The whales to the shores

And the birds to Peru

 

To die,

I will come to you

The cells of my body

Dream that

It is winter and the coffee is on the fire

 

We are sitting on the porch of our house

Under the blanket that you are used to it

Hey dreams, wait!

I have never been a pelican

Are you happy?

We are the owners again,

The owners of our loneliness

The sky of this dreamer cells

Are full of pelicans   

How your blanket of loneliness

Becomes warm

With the dream of my Mosaddegh blanket.

***

broken vase - pinterest
Illustration Courtesy: Pinterest

Broken Vase

‏Look! This vase, falling on the floor

‏Shatters into pieces

‏Like a plundered country

‏Every night in this city

‏Several wings are born without birds

‏And several breaths come to an end in dead-end alleys

‏When I saw the extinct drops of water on the windowpane

‏I understood that I am dead, and I am a wing without bird

‏And from that legend of rain and drunkenness of dead-end alleys

‏Only a broken vase is left.

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