Dhusett orrh aam 

I only know three words in Persian--
Dhusett orrh aam, I love you. 
And if I found myself in a foreign landscape, 
a high plateau ringed by dry blue mountains 
and a stranger approached me, 
his dark face obscured by a long white scarf 
and he began singing 
in a strange beautiful tongue, 
I would fall into the silences 
of his cadence 
and trace a tragic history in his soft face 
with my beautiful hands--
an ancient story of a sacred desert 
with springs of humanity overflowing 
with princes and princesses 
and legions of poor
and a rock hard faith 
carved out of stone 
where once goddesses ruled 
in a green forest 
before the others came 
to the four corners of the earth 
and split open the world sending 
her people north carrying water in their blue eyes 
and south holding fire in their black eyes. 
And I returned home to my northern isle. 
They wondered at my brown eyes.
My father tried to tell me who I was 
but I could not listen 
I could not stop myself 
and I returned to the high desert 
with only the cold moon to guide me 
diminished to a sharp silver sword 
cutting through black sky 
and my ears were ringing 
and my blood ran thin
and I heard him singing 
something utterly ridiculous 
but mesmerizing.
And I thought I was in Persia 
but I find I am in New Mexico 
and I dream of pale pink and blue tiles 
covering the floor of my house 
because that is the color of 
falling sun in a high plateau.
And he does not understand me 
when I say Dhusett orrh aam 
because he is not a Persian 
and that country vanished years ago 
and now lives only in dusty books 
and dirges of foolish poets 
and eyes of strange men 
with long brown eyelashes 
who sing without knowing 
what their words mean.  


Copyright EPG May 1997