I’m an immigrant
I have a white skin
that’s not beautiful anymore with change of location
I have blue eyes that are ordinary now with the change of
country
and poetry that don’t need
me anymore to write with the change of language
I’m an immigrant
and policemen value me good
They hold the black heads of immigrants under their boots
They hold me
and in their
camera’s lens their faces are giving altruistic smiles
I’m an immigrant
they attach my hands behind in the hospital
and inject serum in my eyes
The black fume arises from my head
the black that my eye walks in
the black of world
I’m an immigrant
and I have a stable linkage with history
A division in the museum
A division in my hands poor on the stones of shrines and palaces
Translated by Maryam Hoole, edited by Sheema Kalbasi & Roger Humes.