In the morning I visited the dead and in the evening the living.
The dead understood the value of time and said ‘go.’

We cleaned the tomb together with brooms of bundled straw
And water to make the stones shine, breaking flowerheads over words.

The city of the dead has its own highway crowded with cars and vendors
Martyr’s photos painted large as their leader’s tomb.

The road to the living was empty, lonely, dry climbing to blue snowpeaks
We swam in a cold mountain pool gasping, struggling, nerves tingling.

Riding warm together we listened to the strings of a darvish
And they told me the meaning of 'man na manam, na man manam.' **


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** 'Man na manam, na man manam' is Persian for 'I am not my body, I am not this that you see.'