The little squares of Tehran Pars (*
repeated themselves,
like the noons of my summer days.
An alley-garden, as wide as a pool,
a pool, as vast as the whole world,
as large as the golden dreams of fishes.
Tiles, the shimmering scales of a courtyard,
overflowing with childhood,
in a pool of cement,
where the fountain was the breathing voice of water
in the clear dream of childhood.
Waters that grew clouded in adolescence,
as if the pool’s waters fled from growing up,
and the fishes vanished into moss-green depths,
like youth itself,
disappearing behind the tarnish of mirrors,
like golden fishes
behind mirrors of rust.
Yet the little squares of Tehran Pars
always grew brighter in my memory,
and the nights—full of joy,
and waterfalls of crystal and moonlight,
grew ever more abundant.
