The lost poem

By | 1 August 2021

It had a sense of presence,
of solidarity in light’s embrace,
despite the blind-folding, the winding drive,
the tuning-up of crowded Tehran streets
dissonant in cupped glass; then voices only,
interrogation, an art-form of power
where everything fits, as in paranoia;
but nothing was lost on you.
In what was planted or removed that night,
loyalty travelled in a few straight lines
on the crystalline wedlock of light
in the mosaics of dawn in Esfahan,
the only words a faithful man
could bring himself to write.

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