Even If, by Ali Asadollahi

All the time
we denied it and                    we forgot
instead of a tree
we used to put our aiming eyes on a rifle
-to hide and seek-

Some days, I forget
I’ve choked on blood and each time
I should cough up a piece of my burnt city
from my chest.

Some days, you forget
to take shelter under your desk, when your student raises her hand
How do you know 
she’s not pointing her finger at a bomber again?

We soon forget
to be always frightened
even if the city is safe
even if you’ve done fireworks till sunrise, in celebration of a ceasefire
even if no cop taps on your shoulder, asking for your military exemption card.

Peace is just a playtime bell
ringing in war

Peace was a white wish that
many shrouded soldiers 
took to the grave

Ali Asadollahi, an award-winning Iranian poet, is the author of six Persian poetry books. Asadollahi is a permanent member and the former secretary of the Iranian Writers’ Association (founded in 1968). His poems and translations have been published in Consequence, Denver Quarterly, Epoch, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Modern Poetry in Translation and others.