Yalda Time

I clawed, I pulled my roots from the depths of the polluted oil well — which had no lantern — out into the open. I took my roots upon my shoulder and step by step I crossed lands with parched faces, toward the festive lights of this window of yours: lit up by the rising sun. Step by step the seconds were the rhythm of my steady, hard footsteps, the rhythm of time — a flowing time though unseen — until arriving at now: Yalda, a red pomegranate in your hand...