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Aref
Roodbari
Shahmiri
Inner
Conflict
It is spring or maybe
summer
or
maybe
all
the
seasons
that
we
are
reliant
upon.
Whatever
season
it
is,
a
cool
wind
is
stirring
the
white
cotton
blooms
and
the
fir
trees
that
my
village
starts
with.
It
has
been
a
long
time
since
these
fir
trees
and
I
have
been
singing,
thanks
to
the
little
sparrows
of
“Tajan.”[1] I have learnt here what to be. I have also learnt to count the breath
of
the
people
I
live
with
since
life
is
too
short.
I
even
know
very
well
how
many
acres
of
land
there
is
here
to
run
in
or
how
many
fish
that
can
swim
against
the
current
or
how
many
cows
that
low
in
the
“Panbe
Chuleh[2]”
paddies.
It
is
not
too
much.
It
has
never
been
too
much,
whatever
it
is,
is
the
rhythm
of
the
devoted
and
lovely
songs
of
my
mother
that
encourage
me
to
play
a
new
song
on
the
iron
worthy
to
listen.
The present collection
is
the
fruit
of
the
romps
of
being
still
“a
ten-year-old
child”
in
heart.
I
have
just
tried
to
engrave
my
new
experiences
I
have
got
from
my
mother
land
and
the
flux
of
my
life
river
second
by
second
on
these
scraps
of
iron
because
nothing
satiates
me
better
than
the
things
get
me
closer
to
what
is
called
“I.”
I am very happy that I
have
not
failed
the
trial.
Translated
by:
Azadeh
Feridounpour
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