"They think I'm insane..." She said, whispering it in my ear as if I was her confidant, a friend that would keep her secrets. "I'm not." She added after a while, looking a little thoughtful as to my face expression and I nodded slightly, listening to the silence that surrounded us and moved to rise from the ground. Her cold fingers wrapping around my wrist stopped me and her nails cut into my skin. "Not yet." She hissed and a few seconds later, she dragged me up and we hurried down the wall.
Forough Farrokhzad’s iconic, widely quoted poem (Rebirth, 1962) . . The Bird May Die I feel sad, I feel blue. I go outside and rub my cold fingers- on the sleek shell of the silent night. I see that all lights of contact are dark, All routes to relate us- are blocked. Nobody will introduce me to the sun, Nobody will take me- to the gathering of doves. Keep the flight in mind! The bird may die. . . (my translation, September 2006, Montreal) . by: Persian Poetry in English
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