The Traveler

A mountain village in Iran:
Our car halts under linden trees,
The heart of a poppy field
Opens with a red silky sky, and a warm mild scent.
Stepping out on the road, between Qasvin and Kerman
A dusty traveler, I open the thermos bottle, take the mountain scene
And busily look at the map: Where am I?

Unknown clusters of homes, strange life, alien tongue,
Kindliness in eyes, blue domed mosque,
Life blossome a desert rose.

Where am I?
Spreading heart's harvest, and blue wind on the hills,
The children's looks from under pulled-down caps,
Some voice reached my receding ears, across the heavy car's horn
---Hardly did I hear---
'Amid willow's murmur and the voice of waterfall in houses,
With the greeen rug of grass spred under trees,
And gradens with tea served in noonday's light,
Rest awhile,
For you are HERE:
In this World, your home.'

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.