PoemsHorsesSave this storySave this storySave this storySave this storyA few of us had sat downat a café, our hair singed, ourchests crowded with the streetsof Tehran—our skins of daylighthaving turned dark here and there.We were a few horses havingno wings, no manes, no meadows.We were all about running, andwith casual, soiled horseshoeswould sprint out of the streets’choked throats.Trees had turned into truncheons,and we were so full of tears thatcould cry for real amidall the smoke and fire.We were about to breakand at last pounded downon the table the fists wehad been waving in the air.And we hid our fists under the tables.And we hid our fists in bed.And we hid our fists in the kitchen drawer.And we hid our fists inside our pockets . . .Open my fist!Whatever part of TehranI place a hand on, it is aching.Whatever part of the dayI sit on, it is nighttime.Wherever on the soil . . .I didn’t have the stomachto finish my sentence!This poem was gunned downin its opening lines or else itwould never have come to an end.(Translated, from the Persian, by Siavash Saadlou.)