By: Maleksabet Ebrahimi
Let once again the withered trunk arise,
And Heaven’s grace its branches fertilize.
Though cracked, it held its roots in secret deep,
To bloom again with kisses, it did keep.
The heart once stilled shall beat and rise anew,
And scent of love in every meadow strew.
It minds no saw, nor stone, nor winter’s sting—
Like spring’s soft song, it gifts the world a wing.
Though Earth bears wounds from humankind’s cruel hand,
Time sows green gifts where thorns once claimed the land.
Who says that man, in this forsaken ground,
Must heed all lies and let his soul be bound?
Gaze into silence—hear its secret tone,
A quiet song that stirs each sleeping stone.
Though fate has cracked our branch with iron hand,
Beyond that force, your will shall boldly stand.
The tale of love is told in silent breath,
It crowns the soul with honour past all death.
O Malek, read from cypress limbs above,
The verse of grace, of pride, and endless love.
Maleksabet Ebrahimi
Toronto