I passed across Amiriye seamstress house.
My youth behind an old-fashioned Arj table
Was basting stitch
I drew patterns,
I cut
The color of the year was dark green.
The Tirgan ceremony was impending,
And I should sewed a low-necked dress,
Decorated with pearls
For Amind Al Doleh daughter
Every day I was chocked,
Behind tight collars
But I did not depreciate
The supplementary housewifery
Yet I had not experienced the Channelize Boutiques
Even Madam Balmain’s fashion house
The Maxi dress that I made,
Were shrunken
And my youth committed suicide In San River
I poke a needle to myself.
I loosened a bottle hole.
I become sewing
And I flounced my mind
I sang Farrokhi Yazdi
And I stitched my lips
And an endless, silent voice said
I have to be crowned
By Bahare Rezaee
Translated from Persian to English: Azadeh Davachi
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem