The Picture Frame

Mehregan has come

but in our homes

still

someone's place is empty.

Our young went out

with pockets full of dreams

and came back

in picture frames.

A mother

each night

dusts her child's face

and softly asks:

‘Aren't you cold?’

A father

no longer calls his son's name

aloud;

he is afraid

the house will fill again

with the sound of weeping.

My land

for years

has buried its young

and left their mothers

old.

But still

a lamp burns beside that frame;

a lamp that

a mother's tears

will not allow

to go out.