“Isn’t it strange
that in order to be happy
we have to disregard
all the sadness in the world?
That we have to overlook the ballooned
bellies of children, which are dark
and empty inside. That not too far
from our warm homes, the elderly sleep
on cardboard. That there are teenagers
trained to carry heavy rifles,
but their nightmares compel them
to aim the weapon
at themselves.
That there are battered dogs
with skin taut like a drum
and ribs jutting out—their eyes
so beautiful
it makes all the men cry.
Isn’t it strange that in order to be happy
we have to unremember
what we already know?
And yet,
maybe we aren’t meant
to pursue happiness
despite
all the sadness.
Maybe,
it’s a call for us
to help others instead.”

Kamand Kojouri

“I don’t know why it’s still unclear
whether heaven and hell exist.
Do we need more evidence?
They lie right here—in our midst.
Heaven is standing on Mount Qasioun,
drinking Damascene scenes,
as the jasmine breeze
carries Qabbani’s verses
through trees of willow.
And Hell is only a four-hour ride
to Aleppo, where children’s cries
drown the roars of mortar bombs
until they lose their families,
their limbs and tongues.
Yes, hell persists,
right here in our midst.
And all we do to extinguish this hellfire
is sigh, shrug, like, and share.
Do tell:
What does this make of us?
Are we any better
than the gatekeepers of hell?”

Kamand Kojouri

“I have died at the ripe age of twenty.
Smile, for the world didn’t get a chance to disappoint me.

I have died at the mature age of ninety.
Smile, for my life was more than satisfying.

I have died suddenly — out of the blue.
Smile, for I didn’t have to fall ill before you.

I have died from a long illness.
Smile, for I had the chance to say goodbye.

I did not want to leave this Earth.
But smile, for I am still here among you.

Why are you crying?
Can you not see I am smiling?”

Kamand Kojouri

“Ask of your eyes to see
only to seek love.
Ask of your mouth to speak
only to utter words of love.
Ask of your hands to feel
if only to touch the lover.”

Kamand Kojouri

“Make no mistake about it.
We are born blind, deaf, and mute.
It is neither these eyes that give us sight,
nor these ears that give us sound.
It is not even these lips that give us voice.

It is only love.
Love makes us seek beauty and truth.
Love yearns to connect. To experience.
To understand.

So close your eyes at once.
Don’t utter a word.
Perk up your ears and listen
to that silent sound inside you
where all this is found.”

Kamand Kojouri

“You are not who you think.
You’re not even the thinker.
You are the one conscious of the thought.”

Kamand Kojouri

“He tried to measure his day

by tallying the hours on his wrist.

I wiped it off and called him a prisoner.

He placed the hours on a scale

with hours from former days to compare.

I took a hammer and broke it all.

He bent down and picked up the

shards of minutes first

then swept the seconds.

I told him he’d missed a spot;

there were some sparkling specks left.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Those are moments,” I said.

“What are they made of?” he asked.

They are times, I thought, when you win a race

or win a heart.

They are times when you give birth

or lay something, someone to rest.

When you wake up in the morning

with a smile because anything is possible.

When someone compliments the thing

you hate most about yourself.

Times when you are embarrassed.

Times when you are hurtful.

Times when you relish in a hearty meal.

Times when you service others and

are content with a well-spent day.

“What are they made of?” he asked again.

“They are made up of times when we are fully present.”

I licked my finger and picked up one of the specks

with the tip of my finger.

“Do you remember this?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, “I was whistling in the kitchen

that morning.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because of the knowledge

that I was loved.'”

 

Kamand Kojouri

“It is raining blood today.
I open my book and write Black Lives Matter
to acknowledge the unanswered injustices.
I write Blue Lives Matter
for how can any human
be separate
from humanity?
I write All Lives Matter
but stare at these words—
Don’t they invalidate the others?
I stand conflicted
as the clouds continue to bleed.
I try to erase the last phrase
but find the blood
has already
drowned my words.”

Kamand Kojouri

“We all wear masks
to veil the truth.
Truth is nakedness.
Truth is fear.
Truth is the gardener
making you sit on
his lap
asking you to
light his cigarette.
Truth is father—
with a limp cigarette on his lips
— telling you to never
use his matches
to light it for him.
Truth is father
yelling:
“It is not
nice for little girls
to do so.”
Truth is a curious girl
wanting to
ignite a match
like a woman.
Truth is the maid watching
from the kitchen,
knowing.
But knowing isn’t truth.
Truth is the maid calling:
“Come. Come.”
Truth is the gardener understanding.
But understanding isn’t truth.
Truth is the maid saying,
“Stay away!”
Truth is a girl thinking
she is in control.
That nothing happened,
nothing bad.
But the truest truth
is a girl knowing,
a girl understanding, that
on that day
someone stole
a little piece of her
truth.”

Kamand Kojouri

“For all these stars,
nothing is new.
They’ve seen all kinds of wars
and miracles, too.

They know the messengers with their holy books
will smile and wash their hands in blood.
They know the politicians with their good looks
will make the poor eat pies of mud.

They’ve seen the Earth freeze
and then burn with greed.
They’ve seen the trees
and the seas emptied.

Yet, you won’t hear their sneers
when a man arrives
and, having experienced a number of years,
proclaims: ‘I have lived!’

Because nothing is new under these stars:
the lies, the love, the memories and scars,
the ruin, the revolution, the fakes and true,
the families, the friends, none of it is new.
All of it—even the me and you.”

Kamand Kojouri