They trampled the wheat field; Soldiers
Found a wheaten woman
And the house’s oven roasted my father
For some times later
Separated the whites from each other,
A tawny child
It’s not the worker bees’ job;
The wind doesn’t have hands;
The pollen of human is scattered by war.
If a mother wasn't enslaved
Fatherland made no sense
If you added me up to dead soldiers
I couldn’t match with this world.
The garden burning in the rain
Is the reconciliation of despair and hope.
Turn my face for I’m still alive
With close eyes
With a wound covering my face
Of fear I’m standing
Death comes and goes every day
I’m a tree
In the courtyard of a carpenter’s house.
Javad Sanjari was born in Quchan, Iran in 1984. His field of study in university was computer science, but he has a love for literature.