Soon the road tapered
And became
little more than a jagged trail -
Parallel twists
Of bare ground
And traces of
tyre tracks
Made by wandering
wheels.
Then came the
hairpin bends,
With no
guardrails
To curtail a
careless cartwheel’s
Descent into
the deep valleys below.
It was time to
stop.
Instead of
steeply sloped hills
There were
stepped strips -
Terraces etched
into the tough terrain.
A village
punctuated the panorama,
Its creamy mud
structures set stark
Against the ambient
abundance
Of poplars,
maple and cypress.
Houses and
overstocked stores,
Shelf-stacked above each other
In countless
contours,
Ascending the
hillside
Like building
blocks
Placed by a
gifted child.
Each footpath was
a mesh
Of tarmac and
timber,
And also a rooftop
For the humble
home below.
It seemed
enchanted
And, possibly,
Full of tales
of simpler, happier times.
But for this
supposition
There was no
evidence,
Except
imagination.
* Masouleh is a picturesque village in the mountains
of Gilan, one of Iran’s Caspian Sea provinces.
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