In the past, those days when we were still twenty years old and had a strange sense of poetry, “Dehdasht” was young and still had the scent of life. I and “Ali Hosseini” were good friends, always together, and still spent the late nights of the weekends together, reciting our shared poems; nights and poems that became known as our “Cheriki” nights and poems. After many years, we wrote poetry together again with Ali.

I have written about your arrival;

With my friends

Who are prisoners

We come from the meeting of death

From the meeting of the moon.

From the path we returned

The sun,

Had a heavy red sunset

In constantly burning

From the candles of your name

That with the wind

Dancing in the sky in all directions.

The interrogator says:

We know everything

And your white-haired wife

Has skillful meaty hands;

I look at her

And I don’t cry

Have you ever been calm like me

And have you tasted

The words of death

In your mouth?

Do this, my dear

Before you say

I am a death-obsessed and sad poet

And I don’t have a healthy soul and mind,

Do this, my dear.

I allow you to

Be in my place tonight

And at the age of six, fall from a fig tree;

I allow you to

Fall in love at the age of

9 Khordad 1395

Reza Akvanian

Ali Hosseini