The Black Mountain is a poem against compulsion. It was first published in Derafsh-e Mehr, an English literary journal.

I am taking my first feeble steps
from behind my ancient black mountain,
from the prison in which I was a captive for years.
I feel the snowflakes on the infected wounds on my body;
the snowflakes sit on my wounds, and I enjoy it_
I am Winter’s child!

And you but find refuge in the very black mountain
in which _until today_ my body and soul was in torture;

Because you are unaware of the history of my tortures!

My wounded soul

like my tattered skin

is now disgusted with any clothes;
Yes, my Dirty body is disgusted with clothing.

And you escape from me
to hide in a black mountain like my ancient one;

Because you are unaware of the history of my tortures!

But no place can hide you from the arrows of my Impure eyes,
My eyes see you nude

if that is your biggest fear;

With my eyes, I touch every inch of your body

if that is your biggest fear;

You are unaware of the history of my tortures!

With your words, you hit me in the head,
and you give a fresh whip to my torturer
to carve a new wound on the slashed skins of my sisters;
With your words, you picture a window
facing the very mountains from which I have escaped_

You are unaware of the history of my tortures!

You guide me to the bloody ancient mountain,

But I will not go to your paradise;

You guide me to the path of heaven,

But I will not go back to my inferno!

You truly are unaware of the history of my tortures!

نسخه فارسی شعر کوه سیاه را در سیناریوم بخوانید.