When Is Dad Coming Home?

When Is Dad Coming Home?

Father left and never came home again;

that one, beloved gaze never returned.

A lamp that shone at home more brightly than the day

was suddenly extinguished in a heart of pain.

From that night on, the doors and walls were silent;

all the windows wore black.

Each night the little girl grew restless,

asking after her father’s hands.

Mother, she said, tell me, where did Dad go?

Why did he leave us without a sound?

Why are his shoes still beside the door?

Why has his laughter stayed behind on the wall?

Her mother stared at the ceiling of the house,

a choking grief lighting a fire within her breast.

Her lips were closed and silent with pain,

but her heart, like glass, was shattered by sorrow.

Within, she cried: O God, who needs nothing,

tell me, how can I bear this pain before you?

For what offence did these young people fall?

Why did they die beneath oppression’s blade?

Did they not go for the Lion and Sun?

Did they not go for freedom and hope?

Were they not the lamps in this land’s heart?

Were they not the dawn within this sodden night?

What did the child know of what a bullet meant,

of a father’s loss, of blood, of torture?

She wanted only her father’s embrace,

only the sound of his footsteps.

Her mother lifted her head towards the sky,

again invoking in her heart the Judge of the world.

She said: O God, how long will you watch?

How long will you leave a mother’s heart so alone?

Do you not see this child’s tears?

These homes burned by a father’s blood?

Do you not hear the mothers’ lament?

Do you not hear this ruined heart’s cry?

Suddenly rain fell upon that house,

sadly and softly it fell in the night.

The woman’s tears fell with the drops from the sky;

her heart’s pain mingled with the weeping rain.

As though God too, sharing the mourners’ grief,

wept that night for those whose names live on.

As the rain fell, the little girl grew calm;

weary from crying, she settled in her mother’s arms.

But her mother’s heart was not released from his memory;

the flame of this love did not go out within her.

She knew full well that Dad would not return,

yet his name would not be lost from the homeland’s heart.

His name remains on walls and streets;

in the people’s breasts it still burns bright.

Until the Lion and Sun rise from the night,

Iran’s soil will guard the father’s name.

The day freedom’s morning blazes forth,

this innocent blood will light tomorrow’s lamp.

That day the daughter will quietly understand:

Dad did not leave; he came to rest in Iran’s soul.