Poet was his mother
Busy with cameras
The angles and the light
Mise-en-scene and take outs
To make sure on edit and montage
Saw short film; came along and across…
Nothing was but comment/document on a life
His mother was Foroogh Farrokhzad…
A poet and rebel
A builder of style
No one cared for the man
He wasn't important
He is used, crumpled
To make food for the bird.
I too say:
'Am poet! '
Now think of what happened
After death in grave
To my lost children…
Will sometime
A film makes story to fill up stomachs?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem