knife

In Gonyeh’s narrow alleyway,

The deer pass by my father’s knife shop,

Where he kneels before the furnace’s fire

Like a solitary fire worshipper.

 

The flames dance upon his sweaty brow

And in his eyes fire turns into Abraham's rosery,

The darkness envelops the shop,

As soot clings to the crevices of his hands.

He rises, his white hair glowing in the dim light,

And strokes it gently, his touch turning it black.

 

The father stands before the molten furnace,

Gazing with a face both fierce and mystical.

With steady hands, he draws forth the steel blade,

Born from the fiery breath of a dragon’s mouth.

 

And like an alchemist of old, he works his craft,

Transforming this metal into a precious ruby gem,

A treasure born of fire and the master's touch,

A testament to his skill and unwavering will.

 

The father is a seasoned craftsman,

Breathing in the constant smoke of his lamp in his small cell.

Through the sale of his knives, he has journeyed far

From this cell to the bustling kitchens of the city,

And even further afield, across the wide world.

 

With the plectrum of his hammers, the father

Brings forth a Sama dance, his skilled hands moving.

Though years have passed, his hammer's pulse

Is now irregular, out of step with the beat.

And on his once-tall stature, time has wrought its changes,

Bending and warping his once-proud frame.

 

The father's eyes, a garden of roses,

Hold a gentle gaze, one that seeks no harm.

For even as he wields his blade with skill,

He wishes not to stain its mouth with blood.

 

 “May my knife never cut a lamb’s throat,”

The father speaks his truth:

“Nor fall into the hands of city thugs.

May it never slice the hand of a woman

Who's wept for hours, chopping onions.

May my locking knife, with its deer horn handle,

Never be used to hunt down a deer,

In a place where they stand no chance to flee.”

 

The father stares intently at his blade,

A thousand suns reflecting in his eyes of blue.

And yet, I fear the open maw of the bench grinder,

Its work nothing but noisy, aggressive.

 

I say to myself:

“If iron shavings should overcome my father’s eyes,

No more stars will twinkle in that deep blue hue.”

 

The father is like quenched steel,

Cool and calm in the face of fierce flames.

He never burns like a raging furnace,

But fights against the darkness within.

 

For many years, he has kindled the fire

That lights our home, fueled by this very furnace.

 

The sound of the sledgehammer falls heavy,

A mighty roar that echoes through the air.

And yet, I cannot help but think,

That the red-hot flesh of the blade on the anvil,

May be a sinner who deserves to be punished.

 

 

The father is a descendant of Kaveh,

But unlike his legendary ancestor,

He has no Derafsh Kaviani nor leather apron,

Symbols of resistance against the tyranny of Zahhak,

That brutal king who sought to quash all rebellion.

 

Instead, the father walks among the deer,

Disturbing the slumber of those who would oppress,

Passing through the venomous coils of snakes,

And journeying toward the castle of the sun.