From the first sparks of the Constitutional Revolution, which later turned into a flame, to the present day, when the idea of freedom has taken hold of the souls and minds of Iranians, from the beginning of a century and a half of resistance by freedom-loving sections of the nation, groups of Iranian people have always tasted the bitter taste of exile. Iranians, who themselves were victims of the difficulties of migration, have opened their arms less to their suffering neighbors. At this very moment that we speak with you, there are countless Afghan migrants who are stranded in makeshift camps along the borders of Iran, without food.–

Without food.–

And the medicine is waiting to be transferred to the camps. The poem of return has been written by Mohammad Kazem Kazemi, an Afghan poet, and he has left his sorrow with a constant smile on our souls.

Return.

I will go for a walk at sunset on the warm road.

I had walked, I will walk.

My spell of loneliness will be broken tonight.

And the trips that were empty, will be closed.

And during the nights of Eid, neighbor!

You will not hear crying, neighbor!

The same stranger who had no voice, will leave.

And the child who didn’t have a doll, will go.

***

I have experienced the whole horizon in pain.

I am the one who, whoever has seen me, has seen me in passing.

I am like a bread, if I had one, it would be made of clay.

And my travels – which were non-existent – were full of hunger.

To whatever mirror, it is an image of my defeat.

The stone buildings are a sign of my hand.

If by kindness or by wrath, I am known.

All the people of this city know me.

I stood if the sky curved behind.

I prayed, even if the world turned into Ibn Muljam.

***

My spell of loneliness will be broken tonight.

And my journeys – which were empty – will come to an end.

I will go for a walk at sunset on the warm road.

I had walked, I will walk.

How can I not go back? My fortress is there.

How? Oh! My brother’s grave is there.

How can I not return? To the mosque and the mihrab.

And the sword, waiting for a kiss on my head, is there.

There was residence and call to prayer, that was what was here.

The uprising and “Allahu Akbar” is there.

My broken wings are not tired here.

The cranes that I fly well in, are there.

I am not a beggar, I only have one leg and one crutch.

Don’t take the small one, my other foot is there.

***

I pass broken tonight by your side.

I am ashamed of your countless kindness.

I know about your cold night silence.

I know about your pain, martyr.

You also saw a star like me.

You didn’t see the father, but you saw his ashes.

You are the one who has entrusted the alleys of loneliness with me.

“And the burnt coffin on my shoulders.”

If you saw a wound, it’s because I bit my lip.

You are a stone, if I eat water and grain.

***

Although our farm also had barley seeds.

And a few idols also deserved to be thrown away.

Even though it became bitter, may your peace always remain.

Although my child hit your window.

Although an apple suddenly disappeared from this branch.

And it became a cause for concern for the people.

Although I was accused of a crime.

Although I was worthy of being buried in a grave.

I do not like the breath of travel, it makes me hopeless.

Even if it’s a lie, my dear ones! Solve me.

I will go for everything I don’t have.

I had walked, I will walk.

I swear by this Imam! I won’t take anything else.

I do not take anything except the dust of the shrine.

May God increase the reward for your religion and worldly life.

And may the rest of your prayers be answered.

Always let your children’s wings be full of wind.

And bread is your enemy – whoever it may be – it is like a brick.

April 1991