Dedicated to Delara Darabi

Wikipedia - Delara Darabi was an Iranian Gilaki female, who was sentenced to death by hanging when she was only 16 years old. She was convicted of murdering her father's female cousin in 2003. Although Delara initially claimed that she had committed the crime, she subsequently recanted and explained that her older boyfriend, Amir Hossein, had persuaded her to lie about the incident to protect him. According to Delara and other sources familiar with the case, Amir Hossein was the person who had committed the murder in an attempt to steal from the wealthy member of the Darabi family.

The colours of Delara

The images run in a drawing,
They are the hidden happiness of a caged woman,
The rags lost in the warm wind
That graze the remains of a shattered happiness.
The square empties itself of an absent woman
For a conviction, a punishment in the body.
Delara, the illusion is emptied by time,
Burnt by constant biting madness.
The head is inclined on a white paper.
“I hope that colours would bring me back to life”.
At dawn everything is still, the telephone rings
“They are going to hang me now,
Please help me, tell them to not do it!”
While the gallows puts an end to forgiveness
And the face doesn’t show any hopes.
The last breath gets lost
… it is evil that watches among the shadows.
A hand caresses the skin still warm
… it is a blackcap’s desperation.
The feet stir into the wind, suspended
… without touching the ground anymore
… without touching life anymore.

I colori di Delara

Le immagini scorrono in un disegno,
sono le felicità nascoste di una donna in gabbia,
i brandelli persi nel vento caldo
che sfiorano i resti di una gioia in polvere.
Si svuota la piazza di una donna assente
per la condanna, un castigo in corpo.
Delara, l’illusione svuotata dal tempo,
bruciata dalla follia … costante, pungente.
Il capo è chino su un foglio bianco
“Spero che i colori mi restituiscano alla vita”.
Tutto tace all’alba, il telefono che squilla
“Stanno per impiccarmi adesso,
per favore aiutatemi, ditegli di non farlo!”
mentre il patibolo scalfisce il perdono
e il volto non accoglie più speranze.
Si perde l’ultimo respiro
… è il male che osserva tra le ombre.
Una mano accarezza la pelle ancora calda
… è la disperazione di una capinera.
I piedi si muovo nel vento, sospesi
… senza toccare più terra
… senza toccare più vita.

Primo Premio ex aequo XIX Concorso Internazionale di Poesia e Narrativa 2009 “Maria Scarcella Padovano” (12/12/2009)