Tips For Demented Writers

Kokoronotomo Stories, 2

After your death,  I found stories you never told me,

I knew you  had brought stories,  language and films,

To children who couldn’t read and had never seen a film.

You never told me Panahi was one of those children.

After your death, I found out how much your nanny was an outcast,

Ostracised at your funeral by your mother and family,

The one you loved the most, and we both shared your bed..

You never told me how you were so alone.

And after your death, when I read your poetry,

I read ‘mother, sisters, lover, you all betrayed me’

Was I forgiven when I was alone with you as you died?

You had always told me to be fearless, I think we were, I tried.

Now, you are with me, again, embracing the poor,

Talking to the homeless and the refugees, as before,

demanding philosophy, fighting beliefs, looking for others to be free.

You may smile, then you are not here, anymore.

You lived quietly, wisely, few knowing what you did for them,

So this is a poem for a perfect woman, not impossible.

I forever learn from you, life is to be fought for the disenfranchised.

And I will die happy as a refugee with you.

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