You did not come, Rira.
The wind came and carried all the dreams away.
No one now, in the silence of the house,
dreams of their traveller’s return.

The loneliness of that small red shoe,
the dolls upon the cold earth,
the unfinished childhood of Darya and Donya and Kordia,
and words that never reach silence.

With loving, tear-filled eyes,
the old poet still whispers in my ear:
even a life sentence has an end,
and we are still marking the sky with tally lines of waiting.

We still die without trees, without sea, without sleep,
without home, without words, and without shroud.

Siavash and Sara, Arash and Pouneh, Arvin and Aida—
how can we look into these shining eyes?
I wish we were photographs and dolls, or Sam’s book and setar.
I wish both we and these endless drops of longing tonight
could take the road to the sky instead of the earth,
so that we might hold your hands and tell you that we love you.

One day, through the unbelieving astonishment of this night,
we will arrive at the bright day of your eyes.

Aydin Areta