I put my forehead on the window
I feel the cold pulse of the night
behind these lenses that look like mine
I look at a narrow street in central Sheffield
the mist, the walls, the bricks,
the whole picture is a dreamy substance
yellow, coppery, hazy, the streetlamps
flicker like memories of the sun and mountains
things that I let go in advance
and took for granted
my finger circles around a mirage:
a recurring fantasy of a wise prophet
with an essential distance
who celebrates the moments of the city
he knows he will perish once turned into hard reality
the whole scenery reminds me of a prayer:
‘Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile’,
most nights I lay awake thinking how futile
is my relevance to these walls and floors
like Jeremiah’s, my home is controversial
a fragile soul passes that narrow street with a pavement of stone
rain begins and turns into storm
weave my foreign threads into your textile
embrace me Sheffield, give me shalom.
Shirin Teifouri