Dard-E-Del Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Dard-e-Del

This is not a poem,
And is not prose,
Not rhymed with meter,
And not new, nor ancient.

This is what in my mother's tongue,
Is called: 'Dare-e-Del! '

Can I translate?
'No, ' if I want to be honest.

Languages are not translatable!
Never, not even in the time of media,
Not even with technology and signs.

Languages are the outcome of,
Years. Decades, centuries,
Of coexistence with one another,
And the winds and the mountains,
Or in conclusion, 'With Nature.'

How can an Inuit define the buffalo,
In the way that a Cree of Prairies did?

How can the Quechua translate,
The waves of the water,
As do the Urus?

How can the people around Caspian,
Translate the palm trees, dates,
And the camels baking bread?

How can a conquistador understand,
Or translate the language of ‘Rivers, '
‘Tagalog, ' or ‘Aymara? '

How could the children of Abraham,
The self-declared agents of Jehovah,
Understand the gods of Greece, Persia,
And the Andes, or Himalayas?

No, this is not a poem,
This is not prose of new, or ancient,
This is the evaporated tears of my eyes,
Risen from my heart, after decades of,
Befriending with the people of the world,
Not asking them about their genders,
Cultures, genes, or DNA…

This is coded writing between my eyes,
My heart, my mind, and my craziness,
Like the letters written with vinegar,
To be visible to read, in front of the flame.

And you can be the flame,
The flame that I see when I sit,
In my patio, watching my plants,
And my flowers, those that I know,
By the names I have borrowed,
Or with no name, which I prefer.

This is the kind of writing that,
You look at the smartness of the,
Spider with its delicate web,
To catch the insects…

The insects that each,
Are smart, smarter, smartest,
Flying around or crawling,
On your skin, in your hair,
And there are times,
When find no place to go,
Except in your nose or eye!

This is the talk between,
The cells of my body,
With a brain that knows,
But doesn't know,
It is a miracle…

Whose miracle?
God's?
It is an easy answer,
To get over with it!
Big Bang?
'Just happened? '

That makes it even harder,
This is a 'Dard-e-Del! '

Dard-e-del with me, myself,
And with my friends who send messages,
Not knowing that they, in all their loveliness,
Are no more than some monkeys and parrots.

'Hey, you, ' I want to say:
'I received this from many others,
They, too, think that they are the first.'

And that is why I do not forward the messages,
Even if the message itself insists that I should.

You can give this writing a name,
But not me, I feel mean to do so.

How can I not talk of the 'Amber Alert? '
Mother kidnapping her own child, or children?
Who says so? The law? Who sets the law?
Didn't the law call the Blacks slaves,
That can be owned, and raped by the owners?
Didn't the law authorize the church and the
RCMP to scoop children of varied ages,
And force them to live in residential schools,
To be brainwashed like the soldiers?

And what do the soldiers do?
Anything but destruction and murder,
Under a different definition?
War? Defending the right and righteous?
And then, the killers are known as:
'Veterans! '

No, this is not a poem,
Neither is it prose of new, or ancient,
This is 'Dard-e-Del! '

Talk between the feelings and the brain!