The spoken word is a sing-song
Poem. The newspapers hold
Flocks of birds on the wing. Graceful,
Unreadable, uninterpretible,
Farsi.
I am a westerner newly arrived
In the Islamic Republic of Iran
My heart flutters like the long,
chadors of the anonymous women
Crossing the street from the corner
On which I stand. Crossing,
Crossing while I stand
Motionless, terrified
Unable to gather sufficient
Nerve to stare down
The heated mob of lawless
Traffic to get to the other
Side. Finally the kindness of
Experienced strangers parted the
Sea of crazed cars, allowing
Safe passage, before closing behind
Us in a tsunami of noise
And fumes.
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