Draw out from the gear
emaciated corpse of your labors.
Draw through the laughter,
the painting of a bloody mouth.
Either erase all the cages,
or draw some birds.

The factory sulks its engine.
All its power is the pressing of turn-off button.
It is involved with making nightmare,
by sleeping pill and anesthetic liquid.
It is morning and the bell ring is at the bottom of your brain,
and the boss frowning is on the phone.

I am the alive generator,
whole my life there is a hole in my shirt’s pocket.
Hole drops from the ceiling
into my wife’s dreams, in the rainy night.
We hope that morning is coming,
but there is a hole in my homeland’s sun.

They made your world dark,
by the ridiculous pictures of sun.
You are shouting among our sob,
although they have kept your mouth shut.
You carry on your shoulder whole the history,
the emaciated corpse of your labors.

Fatemeh Ekhtesari

Translated by Hossein Wallah