Do write

Do write, he says,

how the sun fits 

in the little palms of a child’s hands.

Do write how the blue sky

intensifies still more

in black eyes.

No handful of wheat

in the sky’s corona;

no piece of sky on the table—

what’s  wrong with the mad poet?

Do write, he says,

while I hopelessly scratch

the face of this note paper

that is staring at me with his eyes.

March 2007

Tehran

Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan