The Moon

        Fools you, is beautiful, but might deceive you.

        Do you recall the nation who saw the face of their future

        torturer in the Moon and howled at his feet?* My nation.

        Spontaneous, passionate to the point of exaggeration,

        a caricature of faith. Forever on the verge of an explosion;

        some of us already exploded, trapped, murdered. Love: our

        only weapon. Faith: our favourite poison. And how despite

        my efforts and escapes, I am like them, like us, one of them,

        despite my fear, snobbery, and shame. On her deathbed  

        Mother told me there is no escape. Stop trying. I should’ve

        believed her. The Moon is always observing you, and if you

        dare to stare back, you see things you shouldn’t.

       I am like my nation, in my exaggerated emotions, spitting

       desire, an obsession with violence, though I have sacrificed

       seven stars to rise above the Sea and reach the Moon.

       Indeed, I have educated myself into escape. Petit bourgeois,

       superstitious and faithless. Hence when I look at the Moon

       I don’t see murderous politicians. I see myself, distorted and

       disgraced. I see my muse, muses – depending on the day, and

       my mood, my treacherous Gemini moon. When I look at the

       moon, waning, waxing or full, its beauty overwhelms me, and

       I’m terrified; I know I am in love with someone I shouldn’t be

       perhaps even with another violent entity. I am still naïve and

       overstimulated like my nation. I know I should stop looking:

       Sunlight warms me up, but Moonlight is blinding

Golnoosh Nour