Yazd Quotes

You know how it looks in the mornings in Yazd, when it's still a little foggy, and you can see things but they're kind of greyed out and blurry around the edges?" Sohrab nodded. "That's what it felt like for me. When it was bad. It was like I could make out the shape of life but I could never quite see it.

Our family was woven into the fabric of Yazd. Into the stones and the sky.

...it was perfect. But it was bittersweet too. Because I was running out of time. I wished I could stay in Iran. I wished I could go to school with Sohrab, and play soccer/non-American football every day, though I supposed I would have to start calling it regular football. I wished I could have been born in Yazd. That I could have grown up with Sohrab and Asghar and even Ali-Reza and Hossein.

The bright moon reflects your radiant face Your snowcapped cheekbones supply water of grace My heavy heart desires an audience with your face Come forward or must return, your command I will embrace. Nobody for good measures girded your fields Such trades no one in their right mind would chase. Our dormant fate will never awake, unless You wash its face and shout brace, brace! Send a bouquet of your face with morning breeze Perhaps inhaling your scent, your fields we envision & trace. May you live fulfilled and long, O wine-bearer of this feast Though our cup was never filled from your jug or your vase. My heart is reckless, please, let Beloved know Beware my friend, my soul your soul replace. O God, when will my fate and desires hand in hand Bring me to my Beloved hair, in one place? Step above the ground, when you decide to pass us by On this path lie bloody, the martyrs of human race. Hafiz says a prayer, listen, and say amen May your sweet wine daily pour upon my lips and my face. O breeze tell us about the inhabitants of city of Yazd May the heads of unworthy roll as a ball in your polo race. Though we are far from friends, kinship is near We praise your goodness and majestic mace. O Majesty, may we be touched by your grace I kiss and touch the ground that is your base

I sat at the kitchen table, next to their youngest son, eleven-year-old Amir, chirpy, polite and fluent in English, who was busy alternating between his maths homework and sketching the fascinations of a contemporary Iranian boy: luxury sports cars, the BMW roundel and masked gun-toting terrorists. ‘These are the speciality of Yazd,’ said Sara. For a moment I thought she was referring to her son’s artwork, but was relieved to find her presenting us with a plate of tiny decorated sweets and pastries.