I Take the Pulse of My Homeland by Mohammad-Ali Sepanlou

I take the pulse of my homeland
and glue my ear to her inner moves.
I hear the song of her deep ducts
and marry her pained blood flow
with the murmurs of the night.

I take the pulse of my homeland.
A restless dateless dancer pounds
on the morning dawn like a bell toll.
A distraught moment is awake inside her;
it has romance with my poor heart;
a being audacious but ailing.

I take the pulse of my homeland and hear,
in a capillary that goes from its belly to its head,
the old song of a ferryman sailing towards life.
A river of wine; inside it, sailboats of flowers
are the eyes of peridots on its forehead.
The helm of blooms in the fog
of blush and wine sings songs
of humble needs (reminding of daily truths),
so that the sails of an old sun
can unfurl in the desert’s river.

I take the pulse of my homeland;
I count its heartbeats.
And in the Chi River is a gem
shimmering in the night, a guide
that granted me, from my heart,
a pendant without an ornament.

I run my fingers through the river’s skin—
the river running alongside life and death;
I come to life with it, I die in it.
I take the pulse of my homeland
in the farthest darkest places of time.