She reads Tongue of the Hidden,

poems from the Divan,

at night, while locked up

with her infant daughter.

Guards patrol the corridors,

flash torches at all hours,

to appease their boredom

they mock the imprisoned. 
She reads Tongue of the Hidden.

The women come to her now

in the walled quadrangle

where the inmates assemble

while their children run in circles.

‘Read to us,’ the women plead.

‘Relieve our thirst,

help kill the hours.’ 
She reads Tongue of the Hidden.

The walls have been breached,

a patch of sky is singing.

The women are weeping.

The verses release a chorus

of curbed voices,

lift the veil from their torment,

their tales of violation. 
‘In our homelands,’

they tell their jailers,

‘we were held hostage.

They dumped us in the snow,

left us for dead, naked.

We came to you for help,

but you ignored our pleas,

walled us in prisons.’ 
She reads Tongue of the Hidden.

We come to her now

from all corners of the city,

follow procedure: electronic scans,

possessions in lockers.

The quadrangle is a rose garden,

the thorns wrapped in fragrance.

We draw the scent in — and listen. 
On her release we bring wine,

place the bottle on the table.

‘I come from that city,’ she says.

‘Shiraz.’ Home to Hafiz,

the Wine-bringer,

Interpreter of Mysteries,

composer of the Divan.

Her Tongue of the Hidden. 
We drink to the innocent

who still count the lost hours;

to the women who still

gather in the quadrangle

while their children run in circles.

To the voices that have been stilled:

the tongues that long to unveil

the worlds of the hidden.