MODERN TEHRAN

They are the first shock

To your perspective.

Charging at you but never moving;

Looking back at you

But never seeing you -

And never caring much.

The mountains rise like fire,

But they are already black –

Except for the tops of snow,

Brimming over mostly white,

Like ashy vanilla ice cream.

Then your eyes move lower;

And the city comes into view.

It is light brown and beige

And every colour in between.

But it pleases you

And makes you warm to it.

At ground level

You are always lost;

Until you see the mountains

And north is clearly defined.

And you feel almost secure,

But not quite safe.

And your blood rushes –

You are very much alive.

The local people

Never look lost.

They stride with a purpose;

Or loiter with unstated intentions.

Even the women,

With covered heads bent low,

Have a dignity

That surpasses

The cheap familiarity

That passes for freedom

In whatever home

You flew from

For the sake

Of sheer curiosity.

As a man,

You cannot help but admire

The beauty of the women -

And sense yourself

Becoming competitive

With the men –

As you unconsciously

Search feminine faces

For some sort of response,

In much the same way

As if you were at home.

But it is truly different

Somehow.

So you adjust

To the local pace.

You find yourself

Longing for the sheen

Of jet black tresses

Beneath each fetching scarf.

You marvel

At the shimmer

Of smooth olive skin;

And you smile at smiles

That herald wit and humor

You might never comprehend.

And you search

Each garment’s movement

For those hints

Of shapes and curves

That make a woman.

You drink in the smells –

For there is no other

Drinking to be had.

The sugary fumes

Of the roasting beet

Assail you with delight.

Then a hint of something

Much more earthy

Astounds your nose –

It is the nuts –

Fragrant pistachios

That make you wish

For a beer or two.

You notice the bold young men

And the vibrant young women

Sneaking a peek at each other.

And you cannot help

But wish them well

And wish them safety

And wish them a chance

To know the joys

That you have taken

For granted.

All the time

You hear the noise -

Car horns blare louder

Than faulty mufflers;

There are brakes screeching,

And motors humming.

Voices engage –

But your ear is untrained.

So even the calls of greeting

Sound like an argument.

But the expressions

On countless faces

Put you at ease.

At the very end you wonder:

Why are these handsome people

Still so proud

After so much

Disappointment

At the hands of recent history?

Then you remember:

Great Cyrus was called,

By Yahweh (no less),

A messiah (His anointed).