11.04.2020

forgive this woman who's crumbling inside

Forgive her. 
Sometimes she forgets 
she is painfully the same 
as stagnant water, 
hollow ditches, 
foolishly imagines 
she has the right to exist. 

Forgive 
a photo portrait's listless rage, 
whose longing for movement 
melts in her paper eyes. 

Forgive 
this woman whose casket is washed over 
by a flowing red moon, 
she whose body's thousand-year sleep 
is perturbed by the night's stormy scent. 

Forgive 
this woman who's crumbling inside, 
but whose eyelids tingle still with dreams of light, 
whose useless hair still quivers hopelessly, 
infiltrated by love's breath. 

People of the land of plain joys, 
you who have opened your windows to the rain, 
forgive her, 
forgive because she is bewitched, 
because your lives' fertile roots 
burrow into her exiled soil and pound 
with envy's rod her naïve heart, 
until it swells. 

[Forugh Farrokhzad {1934-1967} 'Forgive Her', from Sin]

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