Translated from the Persian by Mahmud Kianush
A Quarter to Destruction
I live
Like a bird that does not know why it sings;
Like a tree that does not know why it grows;
Like a breeze that does not know why it blows;
And like a fish that does not know
why all the rivers of the world
empty in the frying pans….
Sometimes I think that a flower is something beautiful,
And there is no doubt that it leads me
to the blessed ancestors of plants.
Sometimes I think that the sky is also beautiful
And this cloud that is about to rain
is willing to wash away
The ancient sorrow of my heart;
And this wind that has galloped all the way,
from a faraway land
Down to the throat of my wounded window
Is willing to sweep away my chronic ennui.
Sometimes I think that this country is beautiful
And the streets of its towns have familiar traits;
Sometimes I see the image of my childhood
Riding on the waves,
From one river to another,
Or amid the commotion of the street
idling around
To break a windowpane here,
To draw a matchstick man there
On the tired face of a wall.
Sometimes I see myself
Inside the eyes of a youth
The echo of whose footsteps
Is the favorite music of the girls in love,
And whose breaths have the smell of springs,
the smell of poetry;
And sometimes I see myself
In the shape of a walking stick
Carrying a handful of sorrows, memories, and history
In a small, empty yard.
I see my sister
In a corner
Talking to the mirror;
I see my mother persistently asking the breeze
about me;
I see my father,
The last days of whose life fade away like smoke
While waiting in the line for rationed cigarettes;
And the people
Who squeeze their hearts in their hands
Like grenades;
And I see a God
Who has hidden Himself
Behind the face of the moon
For the fear of His people.
Again my wife,
Who finds me drowning
In a cup of cold tea
Rushes to my rescue
Like a brisk lifeguard
And skillfully draws me out.
The time is a quarter to destruction.
Blockage
Everywhere is closed;
Buildings seem to have
no doors at all;
Everything seems
to be withering away,
Even that young tree
which every morning
Suddenly grew with love
in my barren mind;
Even that smiling window
Which was always brimming over
with the music of rain;
Even that china doll
on whose morning stroll
The clock on the wall
struck eight.
The city is empty
of its nightly merriment,
And the stars
seem to be a handful of pebbles
Scattered on the sky’s face
by an angry man.
Oh, what is the matter with me?
What have I dreamed
in my frightening wakefulness,
that today
Everything,
everybody,
everywhere,
Seems like a naked wall to me!
Inclination
One’s throat must be like a garden
And one’s eyes like windows
through which love passes;
And one’s stature
Must be like a tree
that rises out of rocks;
And poetry must be like a singing bird,
Perching on the highest branch of a tree,
Breaking the heavy silence of the world.