(This is poem was written on one of my many train journeys where I contemplated my experiences in Iran with fond thoughts).
Warm, welcoming, beautiful country
with palaces I only read about in Kubla Khan1,
I came as a stranger into your home
and you accepted me with outstretched arms.
Despite our differences, irrespective of
similarities,
you treated me an honoured guest.
As I visited your haunts and splendours
you explained to me their magical past.
As I tasted the scent of your ‘polo2,’
You mesmerized me with your charming faces
and told me of your love for Shahrukh Khan.
I, lounging back, filled to the brim
With pistachios and saffron, pomegranates and
carpets,
heard you whisper to me through Hafez and Sa’adi
stories of your once glorious Persepolis
and the not-quite-forgotten legendary Cyrus the
Great.
You then also told me of your dreams of returning
to who you were 30 years ago.
After seeing your palaces, treasures, history and
serenity,
as I prepared to depart
you left me with your warmest of wishes
calling me your daughter.
As I returned to my own homeland
it was yours that I knew would also remain
in my heart, deeply cherished
and stowed away for lonely nights.
1.
Reference to Coleridge’s poem of the same name that describes glorious palaces
and garden he saw in his intoxicated dreams
2.
Polo is the name given for the Iranian rice dish
No comments:
Post a Comment