First Nowruz 

This is the first spring
That is passing without you,
Oh, mother of mothers!
What are your grandchildren
And daughters doing without you
At the tablecloth of “Seven S’s”?
In Isfahan
Winds stop breathlessly
And trees feel swollen
Under their skins.
But we, your dispersed sons,
Still sit around a long table
Where you sat at its head
With your long white hair
At our last meal
Five years ago in Istanbul
Under the canopies of an evergreen tree
Which now you have become its earth.
Majid Naficy
March 20, 2018
15 minutes before the start of Persian New Year.