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Green Trilogy

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      Resurrection: Angel of Freedom

      There is no death in a death that shadows us

      or her eye as it puddles the blood that denies her lungs

      the thrills of future breathing

      the place is the blood-splash on the street or streaking down her face

      her teacher beholding             the big why in her wry           open eyes

      the doctor a metre away        who rushed to stop the gush

      Anyone stricken by love calls her name

      So her killers and all the snipers

      shall shrink away

      Any girl who bares her chest to defy

      two ravens in charge of the nation,

      will win the day

      I love love though love recedes

      I love the white lily

      though it withers in my hand

      and grows in my song

      Wait for me

      Oh freedom song

      Bloodstains: Nedas

      Would that I have told you my sister how that euphoric spillage of feet marching  fist face over the pavements and streets  and howling squares daubed in green would only end in tears of blood  alone on the rooftops crying out  for the grace of god to save us  from our foes and the woes of standing by catching tirades of night raids on the neighbours’ house. Save your tears for the coming flood. In spain eighty percent are marias,  in tomorrows iran there shall be as many Nedas.  Save your tears for the coming flood  washing green rivulets in rivers of blood. This is it, the tricolor of your mother’s grief green for the movement, red for the eyes white for the hope

      Forehead beaten in: Shooting Stars

      From the East it encroaches on the stars,

      the big dipper, the pole star suffer

      oblivion for another twenty ... It’s 3.30 am

      Sunday’s  light encroaching on the clouds

      now blanketing the stars we were watching

      on the deck last night, waiting for a shooting star’s

      ’your wish come true’ moment.

      A week in politics come to a conked head.

      We back down, go inside, forgetting the milky way.

      Last night a superstar dies like a supernova at midnight

      BBC foreshadowing the shooting starless revolution

      disappearing up in head hanging balloons of green


      The window to the street light is not shattered

      the wi-fi globe is revolving through the streets

      hushed in the rush of wheels, clicking the keypads

      Too high, too low, somewhere in between

      the crisis is over spilt milk on the kitchen

      floor may be mixed in blood or no, just imagined.

      Was it to do with a shooting star? or even a super star?

      that this iron grip on the rest of us has engaged the best of us,

      but a star is missing and will be?

      Tonight a shooting star missed its promise

      police takes me instead that in a starless night

      like the thinker of the breeze ran in the back streets

      lost in his tracks.

      Froushan Abol
      Shahrjerdi Parham masculin
      Wormser Gérard masculin
      Green Trilogy
      Froushan Abol
      Département des littératures de langue française
      Sens public 2009-07-01
      Chroniques iraniennes