Benyamin Farnam / Last night

Foto: Tine Poppe/Aschehoug

 

Last night was not pleasant

The world was curiously tight and vomited all of men 

The hushed sound of razors rubbed its throat

All roads were one-way

Last night smelled like blood

The earth’s cheeks were red

A group of white pigeons brought the news

In your neighborhood the throat of love had been slit by the garden

 

Last night, the night didn’t get a wink 

It was up till morning, thinking about fire, thinking about water

Hope faded into the walls

Lanterns acted like they weren’t there

All that was, was the sound of death and the weeping of fear, and there was fear, fear, fear 

 

Last night you were distraught

You had no water, home, seed, nor roof

You didn’t even have a grave

Everything you owned were strewn along the path of wind and fire

The shadow of migration dripping on your wings

 

This scene was vacated before night turned to dawn

 

Last night was warm

And the sky was closer to earth than ever

You could count your breaths

And in a vast vacuum, all the crickets sang for you 

 

Last night it was raining and fall lay down upon the world

Where God’s shame was lost between giants of water and fire

Western winds brought you news that the sea had swallowed your children of every color, of every shape

 

Last night winter was ashamed of your red sore toes

Your breath filled the meadows

 

It was dark

And the crowd of merry hunters had emptied the scene

Of all humans

 

Last night you dreamt of spring 

Inverted tulips sang to you:

Oh, you blood-winged asylee

Empty of identity

Empty of family

Of love

Of existence

Of humanity! 

It’s a shame that you were a number on a piece of paper 

 

Last night was the cruelest of nights

Dust of fog

And the weight of silence grabbed the meadow in its arms 

I looked at myself

Clear water poured down and trickled under the velvet mud of the cold sea

 

Last night your voice rode on the wings of the seasonal winds 

Slipping through the bars of shameless justice

And blinded the candle of my room

It had come across 

Rivers and plains

From the Ottoman empire to Europa…

 

Last night your eyes cut open a chest of dark clouds

Restless purple teardrops  

In the sound of wind

With no end in sight

Sat in the still black meadow

Darkness drowned them

 

Last night you were sad

And the little bird sheltering in your heart made no noise

There were just shreds of soft blue

Caressing the walls and the doors

The moon

Was imprisoned in the corner of the house

 

Last night I was exhausted

by all the roads and borders

Last night I wanted to sleep a lifetime

Until Judgement Day came and I would get up and be sentenced to sleep again

Last night I was waiting for you as always

You didn’t show up

 

 

/

Benyamin Farnam er poet og dokumentarfilmskaper fra Iran. På grunn av sitt arbeid og sine politiske standpunkter ble han tvunget til å flykte og kom til Oslo som fribyforfatter i 2018.

 

//

This poem is part of a series with prose and poetry about the refugee during the ongoing climate catastrophes. The poem is written with support from Norsk Kulturfond. / Dette diktet inngår i en serie med prosa og poesi om flyktningen under klimaforverringene, her med støttet fra Norsk Kulturfond. 

 

 

Tidligere tekster om flyktningen på nettsiden:

Wind, just for the refugees / Ashur Etwebi

Mediterranean blue / Naomi Shihab Nye

Flygtningenes tid / Kirsten Thorup

Ømhed og politisk praksis / Jonas Eika, Rolf Sparre Johansson

Ai Weiwei: Our Judgement is Crippled

Lyudmyla Chersonska: Two poems

Jægeren og de som jages / Susanne Christensen

Andreas Eckhardt-Læssøe: Om at samle sig og samle sammen

Göran Sonnevi: Tre dikt

Wera Sæther: Vannet

Madame Nielsen: Slovenia – Østerrike

Thomas Hylland Eriksen / Arne Johan Vetlesen: Klimaflukt som moralsk utfordring

Herta Müller: Nachts, wenn die Zäune wandern

Freddy Fjellheim og Søren Høyner: Uskyldige menneskers flukt fra klimaødeleggelse 

Inger Elisabeth Hansen: Å resirkulere lengselen

Frode Grytten: Tusener seglar igjen

Gunnar Wærness: Venn med alle, III

 

 

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