Dey Still Carries Your Scent
S. Rouzbeh
2026-10-26

A poem of grief, remembrance and endurance in Dey, the Iranian winter month.

Dey Still Carries Your Scent

This Dey,
what a bitter cold!

On the rooftops
snow will not stay;
the burning grief of these homes
melts
the winter.

The earth,
even the grave,
cannot bear so much grief.

The babbling owl
on the roof of the ruin
speaks of spring;
with a beak
that still
smells of blood.

Dey still carries your scent.

Mother
stitched the night to the door;
waiting
for a voice that will never come again.

Father
saw the morning
from behind his child’s framed portrait;
he laid his hand on the glass,
and the sunlight
in his eyes
went out.

Dey still carries your scent.

The child
held their father’s shirt
in their arms;
the scent remained,
the embrace did not.

Dey still carries your scent.

Did you not see?
The ice of Dey
has still not melted;

but beneath the snow,
their warm blood
beats
in the veins of the earth.

No root
has fallen asleep.

Owl!
Sing all you like
over the ruins;

winter,
however long it lingers,
will pass.

And this earth
will never become
your nest.

Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/entry-1793018301215-ec9949ab
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