A butterknife stranded in Bethlehem
The knife longs to cut the bread
but it’s made only to spread butter
It does this well, the finest butter-spreader
but it aches to carve,
to slice
to cut into flesh,
to wound a finger
Instead, it’s used for playful jest
for jokes about murder, pretend play of a police officer
The best it could do is to touch fire
to burn a careless child’s hand as a mother’s punishment
This butter knife wishes to be more
more than itself.
it stares at a picture of Mary
with her tender eyes,
the best of mothers
the bearer of a miracle
who too longed to be more
more than a vessel
The knife endures
just as Mary endured
knowing she would never be more than
the mother of a prophet—
her destiny defined by his
her love both
sacred
and
heavy
tinged with a quiet soul-sucking envy.

Nov 14

Lake of Tears (Ilya Glazunov, 1988)

I really miss posting here

من چه سبزم امروز
و چه اندازه تنم هوشيار است
نكند اندوهي، سر رسد از پس كوه
زندگي خالي نيست
مهرباني هست، سيب هست، ايمان هست
آري
تا شقايق هست، زندگي بايد كرد

How alive I am,
How green like the garden.
So what if sadness creeps down the mountain slopes?
Life is not barren, but filled
with kindness, apples, faith.
and yes, as long as there are poppies living, we will live too.

— Sohrab Sepehri, “Golestan”