The Wind Will Carry Us: A Poem
Observations from a 1999 Iranian film about death and immortality
i. sounds
The car roaring across the desert and green hills. Engines whirring against the loud winds. The ghost of the car screeching to a halt against the village huddled in the rocks. The bleating goats as they’re pulled in for milk and meat. The sheep calling their shepherds to take them into their lead, their search for greener pastures. Silent exams turned into the loudness of the chalk murmuring on the slate. It seems like whispering questions. The echo of a shout, a sinking man in the ditch. Poems floating to the lips of Behzad as he waits for milk. Jagged languages floating like dandelion seeds in a country devoid of flowers. The wind will carry us.
ii. feet
Farhzad’s small feet as he climbs the rocks heading home with ease. Behzad’s hands on the young boy’s shoulder as he walks to school. The man running across the rocky expanse of the village as he asked the person on his phone to stay put. If you can hear me, please hold on. Minding heads as he walked into dim houses of rock. Farhzad running in the village square, bread and books to his chest. Walk, for men are like machines; they give up the ghost. Walk to the spring and bring water. Walk to the hilltops for network. Walk to the fields to grow wheat. Feet carry you faster than the car. Feet set your footing on the rocks firmer. There are many places one can go with only their feet. The wind will carry us.
iii. women
An old woman hunched over the crops, her voice hoarse as she directs travellers. Old women who are lying unresponsive, reaching a hundred years. A woman with tea on her wizened, wrinkled hands. Tongue, boldened by seniority, lashing out on men languishing. A mother whisking wheat, making bread. Her flour-stained hands meeting her daughter’s brown head, turning her into wisdom. A girl adorned in red rushing through the yellow fields. Not a hair to be seen in this village, only greens and reds and blues and blacks. A girl lit up by a hurricane light in a cellar, drawing milk from the udders as she listened to poems. A lady twisting red wires around the house to hang clothes; a mother hanging the clothes. A baby cries, a girl plays with a rag doll. The wind will carry us.
iv. faceless
People talking over conversations, their voices tripping over like breaking waves. Harsh, loving words slip from their mouths like gospel. A singer without a face singing, a muezzin without a name calling for prayers. A man who passes a bone from a ditch, who gives his wife a person in need for milk. The man’s scream echoing as he falls into the dark abyss of earth, his feet covered and bare on the car window. Farhzad’s open eyes as he hears his friend telling him to go away. The hostess’ commanding voice as she tells Behzad where to keep the bread, where to stay. Mothers forgiving sons forgiving brothers forgiving friends forgiving grandmothers. Words just trip and fall over the winds, the sands, the rocks. The bedrock of civilization, of hurt, of tears, of remorse, of hope, of love. Words carved in eternity. The wind will carry us.
