It’s been a while
since that black cat
sat in front of my room, in Iran.
Later, a pot plant stood there,
and its scent clung to my lips.
The cat had instead, overcome by yearning,
sat itself on the edge of the fish pond.
But that house is not my home,
a lunatic lives there now.
I myself am not I,
as if the cat has taken my place in life.
Maybe tomorrow it will live
in a different house
or in someone else’s skin
or in a flower, in its flowerpot,
or in another animal.
What difference would it make?
