I dreamt that I was innocent
my naked skin
in touch with reality
and my soul was in search
to hear your -worldly- murmur: Peace
I offered you my love
wrapped in honesty
(pure to catch up with you)
shrunk with disbelief
I -asking you: Know me
with your gorgeousness
as you played with the waves
breaking one after another
taking them into your hands
touching them one after another
I wanted to be called with your name: just
what color was Peace?
the one you chose to paint me?
the one you narrowed into my heart and nested in my grave,
what color was it?
I am longing in my grave
to receive the flowers
with your hand written note: rest-in-peace- Middle East
I don’t care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me… and the shoes however small… I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don’t need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.
I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.
Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.
And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.
And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.
Alas! I am 5.7
Sheema Kalbasi (Teheran, 20 november 1972)