There I was
, I saw pictures
-the so-called museum
-in my time, prison!
Therefore, when write poem
-I recall memories and feel pain.
I went to take shower, on return
-when I reached for pocket
-could not find my valet
-it had been stolen!
All of us were briefed when entered
-but alone, first timer, unaware
-had no one to keep my valuables.
Money loss was one side
-could forget as had not
-but not cards; plastics
- (Sources of today's life.)
- (The IDs, permit for driving…)
Unlike past, we are known
-with these junks; us, not us
-feel them like bells on necks
-the donkeys', and markings
- (by some rod, red with heat,
-or a cut in ear or the nose…)
-to show where we belong…
The "Palace Prison" in Tehran
-now reformed to be a museum
-was, in past a camping palace
-for Qajars; with many trees, huts.
-Plenty were chalets with Maison
-ran water in brooks, streams
-all fresh, cold, clean, pristine…
But later was used for detention
-took many varied names,
-all meaning: "Prison"; too bitter…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem