...of the deafened

...He looked at the sky, but not a single dove was visible, even in the far distance. It felt as though he was saying 'Oh God!' as he stamped his foot on the ground, but he couldn't hear his own voice. Raising his voice, perhaps, he shouted: 'Oh God! What should I do? What must I do?' Again, he could not hear his own voice. He pressed his hands to his ears and bellowed the same words, with exactly the same result. He took his hands away and looked at his palms. His hands were partially covered with lumps of black and clotted blood ... he screamed and screamed and screamed, and in the silence of his screaming he did not realise he was running in the desert, until... again he was standing by the head of that young man, his captive, whose life, in all probability, was slowly ebbing  away from him. He stamped his feet on the ground to make the prisoner listen to him: can you hear my voice? I know you're in a bad way, but tell me that you can hear my voice. Well, can you? You... sound... voice... hear? Or has my voice flown up to the sky with those doves? Blood... check that no blood is dripping from my throat... Or from my ears? Open your eyes. He told me that some doves, when they come to roost on the roof of their home loft, shed a drop of blood from their throat. That calms them, apparently, so that they can fly on right through the night until daybreak. I haven't been besmeled to become like that. Get up and talk to me! In whatever language you know. Just talk! I want to hear your voice. And tell me that you can hear mine! Can't you? Get up, otherwise what's to become of us in this endless desert?...

[Thirst, Dowlatabadi, M.]