In three days I will be forever older than you,

Your notes are in my black knapsack that I carry on my back,

Waiting to be copied and dispersed…copied and dispersed.

If I could grow wings,

They would be index cards;

A typed list of names,

Each word burning your death into my spine,

Each Persian name a bloody stamp.

Tabatabai, Ali

Motahari, Morteza

Behbahani, Seyyed Mohsen

Gharani, Mohammed Vali

(I spy with my little eye),

Is there a clue here?

I am full of you and the mystery of your death,

Each name is dead and this is the clue.

Death of a Beautiful Woman