Little by little I hurt
Inside the tube of my head.
The Republic is running and falls
From a great height to the ground.
It’s buried in the crater.
I’m filled and swollen,
Heavier than fire,
My legs are leaping,
The bird on my thumb
Pecks at the dirt.
I’ve no recollection of the sounds of bird steps,
I flap my wings in the throes of death
And fall to the bottom.

Author Photo of Minoo Nosrat

About the Author

Minoo Nosrat is a poet who lives in Iran. She has two books of poetry.