Limpid blue lake
There’s something in your eyes—
perhaps the reflection of newly bloomed daisies,
dancing in the sun.
Maybe it’s the sun’s pearls
swinging on the river,
or the childish joy of running through fields,
against the breeze weaving through the wheat ears.
Or maybe it’s simply your pure heart
smiling through your gaze.
Your smile is like sunshine after the rain.
Can you see the rainbow you painted in the sky?
Look! A child counts its colors,
showing her fingers to her sightless mother.
An old man points with his wooden stick,
saying, “It’s seven,”
as he shares it with his wife,
who cannot see.
Can you believe it’s all your creation?
It’s because of you,
because you simply exist,
your heart spreading life
through your eyes.
There’s something in your eyes—
maybe a whole other world
that not everyone can see.
Oh, how I wish I could travel there,
paddle on its shining river,
singing with the birds.
I’m sure somewhere behind the hills
there’s a limpid blue lake.
If I wander in your world,
I’ll find a beautiful island
in the middle of that lake.
Maybe I can call it home.
You know, I’ve come a long way,
and I’m tired of carrying my home
on these restless shoulders.
Don’t worry, though—
I’m not here to own or buy.
Just let me rent it for a while,
and I promise to keep it dear.
I’ll care for the wheat fields;
no scarecrow, I will sing for the birds instead.
I’ll make colorful nests,
feeding them every day.
But don’t worry, I won’t cage them.
They are all yours,
so whenever you smile,
they can fly from your eyes
to bring hope,
gliding over the rainbow
you painted in the sky.
So, I’m just asking you:
let me in, and I won’t stay long.
I’ll rest a bit in the shadow of the trees,
and when the time comes,
I’ll walk away
carrying my home again.
I promise you won’t see a change;
your whole world will stay the same,
as if I’ve never been there.
But you must promise me this:
don’t ever let the black clouds in.
Don’t let them darken the sky,
or wash away the colors of the bird nests,
if you want to keep whistling with their songs.
There’s something in your eyes—
maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the light.
Maybe it’s hope, or just a whole other world.
Tahmineh Sezavar, April 2023, Istanbul
Originally published by
Writers Guild Berlin in Short Stories and Poems — Collection 02, January–April 2023.