Dancing street is
Where I lived at in Shiraz

It was actually called
Ghasr’u’dast
The palace in the meadow
But we called it Raghs’u’dasht
The dancing street
As a tribute to the multitude
Of potholes that made us dance

It was a long narrow street
That led out of Shiraz
To the tiny town called Ghasr’u’dasht

There, at the end of a
Dead-end street
Called Zargary, the Goldsmith
My father built a house
Which seemed like a palace to me

It had many rooms
And a huge back yard
A large garage
And a multi-coloured gate
At the front

We had many dinner parties
And house-guests
My mother made meals fit
For a king
And we entertained a lot

We had guests from Tehran
The US and Africa
Some were relatives
Some were friends
And some were Baha’is from abroad

I remember walking and singing
In the grassy area of the back yard

And playing with the weeping willows
As I sang songs

This was my childhood home
Until we left Iran
It was off the dancing street
Outside Shiraz