Leila Farjami
The Sower’s Lament
I soak seeds in straw sacks,
string them from beams.
Before spring, I plow paddies,
harrow clods of dung.
Wading in gaalesh,
clay grips my knees.
My palms blister from weeding,
I harvest the heavens bare-fingered.
Moonlets fall into my hands.
I dream of early summer—seedlings lush,
eels curling through my legs, sun gilding
my strands, another baby slung at my waist.
All night, my man watches the fields,
torch raised to wild boars, jackals.
Lonesome, I sing my young
to sleep, each warm
as a bread loaf beneath the sheets—
Far is the land, and far my home.
Bring me back, O Light’s Creator.
Bring me home, that I may die—
Die beside my mother and sister.
No one sees my teardrops,
hears my cradle-lament, gaareh-sari.
No one hushes, pats my back
but my Mama’s ghost.