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 At the hour of death
if there were a catalog of spite
I would become a grape
and crush myself.
            Have them etch into the stone a snake's eye hanging
            from a grapevine, and soft footsteps of the reed
            smoldering like Rumi's Masnavi,
 for the Bedouin
            who quarrels and scolds. His mother called him the
            golden-haired gun, and he told her: all the words circle
            one word that we are unable to say.
            Have them draw a metal fence around the stone and
            inside the fence place a piece of barbwire, a compass,
            and a broken bowl.

Translated by Kaveh Bassiri

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Author:Royai, Yadollah
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2019
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