My baba, although born from semi-desert lands,
Considered himself to be a western man

Maybe it was the sand that tied him in,
It could have been the folk-like, simplified
Melancholy ballads which spoke to his home

But my baba didn’t stay home for long

There was the oil company, which brought his family to every city imaginable within the beautiful borders of Iran

And you know what they say about traveling

So where does one go when the winds blows strong? To the mountains? The valleys?
Or somewhere beyond?

“West we go! West”
Said many of this generation 
To the west, where freedom births new life
To the west, where dreams don’t die overnight
To the west, where everything multiplies 

But the “West” sometimes isn’t always right
Sometimes the beauty lies right at your feet
After all, my baba was born relatively close to the sea

But instead chose to plant diasporic seeds…