by Fereshteh Sari, translated by Parisa Saranj Amin Safaripour Sometimes when the day dwindles over the shoulders of despair, the dead missing their own memories sit by the window and the sound of their feeble joints cracking echoes in the blinds. They fall asleep on the hands of the clock, are crucified on the forgotten laundry lines and remember the days gone. By daybreak, they roll off with the old songs on their host’s tongue and depart. Fereshteh Sari (1956) is a writer