The Hourglass

‘The Hourglass’

S. Rouzbeh

Have you

ever

looked at

your own hourglass?

Time

passes in silence;

it neither cries out

nor gives warning;

only

one more grain

falls through

the throat of the glass.

And you

imagined

you could

stop the flow of time

with a bullet.

You imagined

the rope

would also break

the neck of time.

But time

is history’s riderless horse;

it knows no whip,

no prison,

no command.

For years

you fanned the flames;

a table remained

without bread;

a cradle remained

without a child;

and a wall

took the place of a window.

You brought things to such a pass

that hell

was no longer a fable;

it walked through the alleys,

sat at empty tables,

and beside the cradles

sang death’s lullaby.

You

spoke of hell;

unaware

that you yourselves

were its gatekeepers.

Everything you built

was a wall,

was ash,

was a prison,

and names

left behind

on cold stones.

But

heaven

is not some distant place in the sky.

Heaven

is the day

when no mother

falls asleep

holding her child’s photograph.

Heaven

is an alley

where bullets

have forgotten

the addresses of its houses.

Heaven

is the name of Iran;

when

the shadow of hell

is lifted

from its shoulders.

Now

look at the hourglass.

The final grains

are falling

through the throat of the glass.

No hand

has the power to hold back time.

Tomorrow

does not belong to ash;

it belongs to the seeds

that beneath this same scorched soil

have waited for years

for rain.

And on that day

of you

no palace will remain,

no throne,

no cry;

only

a black stain

in the margin of history.

And Iran

will rise

from its own ashes,

its name

from the mouth of darkness

it will reclaim.