Image of Tears

He whistles
my buttons open
I smell of milk a bit.
I hear his whistle amid the camp's clamor.
This is a camp
Children give birth standing,
mothers scream rockets standing.
My buttons open
and hunger wide open
outside my window stands a child
clawing at the wall
parasites are born
As if the neighbors , pretty or ugly,
are all in love with each other.
And by a piece of glass
I plant ink on my cheeks at night
and purple cotton on my leg.
This is no irony on the glass, no metaphor to the ink
for on the shanks of women by the lip
is the trace of loving kisses from the sores of those years.
Whose voice I still hear
in the brown wasteland of his eyes?
This is a camp
I fasten my buttons
knowing no one suspects the hunger of women.
On the window I nail my veil
and at nights black weeds grow out of my hands.
365 black weeds
The year 1360 – 1361 – 1362
seems my dream has leapt behind those years
behind the mids of that night
where his voice , whistle called me.
I sit – my bottons quide open
seems I smell a bit of milk
Now my life is hungry
my babe is so hungry
I open mouth on the pillow
and choke
Choke my sobs!
the boy's whistle sounds
o so full of life
the boy's whistle sounds
so empty of war , so full of thirst
and for his whistles
my shadow shake so in the midst of life.

Translation from Persian by Saeed Saeedpoor