Image of U.S./Israeli strike on Iran by Anadolou Agency
By Anne Enith Cooper
Scroll, scroll, freeze. And I’m looking
into the eyes of a boy crying
for the the arms of his mother, dead
under the rubble of their home.
The rescuers can’t tell him
she’s gone, not coming back.
At the clinic in Tehran tears still hang
from his dark lashes surrounding darker eyes
and streak the boy’s face. A single tear swells
and falls down
onto the broken street
swelling again, and rolls
from where his mother’s body rests, past
the outdoor cafes and mansion at Ferdows Garden and
the Eram Park Zoo with its Luna Park playgrounds, past
the Persepolis Athletic and Cultural Club and
the Olympic Cinema and comedy theatre, past
the light waterfall of Dehkadeh Olympi and
the moss-covered waterfall of the Abi Restaurant, past
the sweet breath of the Koosar Forest Park and
the limestone steps of the Keshar Waterfall, past
the mountain wildlife sanctuary of Varjin, through
the forest rich Alborz mountains, past
the whispering Sangan Waterfall and
the ice stalagmites of Yakh Morad Cave, past
the Dizin International Ski Resort and
the South Asian Dehati Ice Cream, past
the Siah Bisheh hydroelectric plant on Route 59, under
the cloud forests of Hezar Cham, past
the wetlands of the mountain village of Mianak and
the solace of the freshwater Valasht lake, past
the roaring Hali Dareh Waterfall and
the alpine ridges of hike trails at Mohammadabad, down
to the coast at Chalus, where mountains meet protected
forests and sweet water wetlands, where waves
lap softly and salty mists rise masking the line between
water and sky, where old fishing boats rest, and,
before the undeclared illegal war, wooden pagodas
edged the beach, children poked at rock pools,
herring gulls soared, mothers flew kites and fathers
taught sons to fish and as the setting sun turns sands golden
the tear rolls into the moaning Caspian Sea.
