---------------------------------------------------------------- THE GIFT I am speaking to you- from the edge of darkness, and about the depths of night. I reach out to you- from the thick layers of absolute shade. Darling! If you are coming to visit me, Then, bring me a torch, and put up for me- a little window. I will then watch- the noisy crowd of the happy lane. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2006, Montreal The poem Hadyeh is from the anthology Tavallody Digar (Rebirth) ---------------------------------------------------------------- REMEMBRANCE OF A DAY We were asleep and the rays so bright– was crawling on our silhouette smooth and soft. On the pavement of the terrace, the hands of light– were pulling our shades to the edge, in its hasty flight. The colourful tides of the sphere were endless, The sky was engulfed in the day’s fine fragrance. The silken mass of the clouds, as-if a warden– had spread all around us, a lily-white curtain! **&** “I love you” in silence, and with a weary heart– was utter again, once again from a faint mouth. But it was like in the stillness of the midday– my words went wasted and cast-away! I moaned, moaned...Oh Sun! On this dried bloom no more shine! I was thirsty, thirsty... and I was lured– in the desert of life by the mirage of a cure! In the lines of his face, suddenly emerged– a shade of the regrets he well kept unsaid. The sun went on whipping my locks– the sky landed in his eyes. Oh..., I wish that instant of link was endless! In each other, we would fade without a trace! I wish we would merge with the sun, the sunshine– I wish we would take the hue of the skyline, the skyline! Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2013, Halifax. ******&******* In Persian: یاد یکروز خفته بودیم و شعاع آفتاب بر سراپامان بنرمی می خزید روی کاشی های ایوان دست نور سایه هامان را شتابان می کشید موج رنگین افق پایان نداشت آسمان از عطر روز آکنده بود گرد ما گوئی حریر ابرها پرده ای نیلوفری افکنده بود «دوستت دارم» خموش و خسته جان باز هم لغزید بر لب های من لیک گوئی در سکوت نیمروز گم شد از بی حاصلی آوای من ناله کردم: آفتاب ... ای آفتاب بر گل خشکیده ای دیگر متاب تشنه لب بودیم و او ما را فریفت در کویر زندگانی چون سراب در خطوط چهره اش ناگه خزید سایه های حسرت پنهان او چنگ زد خورشید بر گیسوی من آسمان لغزید در چشمان او آه ... کاش آن لحظه پایانی نداشت در غم هم محو و رسوا می شدیم کاش با خورشید می آمیختیم کاش همرنگ افق ها می شدیم . ---------------------------------------------------------------- UNISON Those two lone pilgrims of void routes, my dark pupils, had fainted away- under sway of his eyes. I saw that he was waving- on the entirety of my verve: Like an immense fire in the wind; Like the waltz of a sleeping lake- under the stroke of rocks; Like grey, thick clouds- in the crisis of storm; Like breathless skies- in warm, humid days. He was extended, up to infinity, down to the other side. I saw myself thawing, with seizing bends of his hands. And I sank in the opaque steam of my substance. The bewitching rhymes of his heart- at last took away the air- from the chants- of my breath. The time hastily flew away. The drape went off with the wind. I had surrounded him, in the circle of flames. I felt like calling, but I had to leave- with the flood of his eyes… They streamed from extremes of night- along the long limbs of desire and thirst, to the morose vibration of fever, to the lost end of me. I felt released. I felt released. I saw my skin cracking in the expansion of love. I saw my burning mass, slowly melted; melted and poured, poured, poured. It poured in the moon, that waned, slight, pale moon. We had cried in each other. In that fleeting instant of unison- We had lived madly in each other. By Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montreal. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Gospel of Matthew 10-16: "Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves." DIES IRAE The destination: the Altar of Innocence, and the Sacrificial Rite of The Bride of Acacias. Alas-alas! Coming back from The Cross, from the crossroad, of mercy and spite, dressed in white? Yes, in white, I stride. Oblivious - yet - I doubt... I wonder, then, I ask: Am I The Shepherd? I may be, I heard; I may be -You, you just said. And, at the Fateful End of the turmoil of The Exam, Answer me now: Am I The Lamb? No! You said to me no! And I now know: The Lamb, I have never been, The Lamb, I could never be. Here, I stand - and now I see: All the Armour of Me, All the Army of Me. ---------------------------------------------------------------- CONQUEST OF THE GARDEN The crow that flew over us and sank- in the confusion of a vagabond cloud; The crow that swiftly crossed- the extent of the sphere- like a short arrow- will tell about us- in the town. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that you and I, looked through the oblique crack of the wall- and saw The Garden. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that you and I, reached for the trembling branch of The Tree- and picked the apple. Everybody is scared. Everybody is scared but you and I, together joined lights, mirrors and water- and feared never. For you and I, it is not about a frail union of two names- in the aged pages of a registrar notebook. It is about my fortunate locks- and the burning stroke of your kiss. For you and I, it is about the imminence of our skins- in the sacred wellspring of lightly streams, swiftly sliding -over the waterfalls and the hills. And, it is about the fountain’s songs- its fleeting flight, its short, silvery life. You and I, in the core of a darkened night, in the fluid freshness of forests, on the peak of shielding mounts, and in a freezing fearful sea- asked young, golden eagles- what we ought to do. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that we pierced- into the silent dream of Phoenix. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that you and I, In the prairies and the plains- reached to the glittering roots- of Truth. Everybody knows. Now, everybody knows that you and I, in an endless instant, conquered the entirety of Eternity. For you and I, It is not about a shaking whisper in the dark. It is about Day and its invading spark. It is about a breeze over the fertile side. It is about birth, evolution and pride. It is about burning every futile piece- in the garnet core of the flames. And it is about our hands- that contrived a bridge, concrete and bright, over the tear of night. Come to the turf! Come to the turf- and call my name! Call my name- with a choral of white lilies- like a gazelle who calls his mate. The shades of dusk- are floating in their veiled sorrow. And doves, from the windows of their white tower- are looking at Earth. Come to the turf! By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006. see also https://www.forughfarrokhzad.org/selectedworks/selectedworks4.php#conquest (Michael Hillmann) ---------------------------------------------------------------- FRIDAY* My silent Friday, My deserted Friday, My Friday: sad, like dusty- forsaken lanes. My Friday, The cold day of ailing, idle thoughts; The moist day of endless, cruel bore, My Friday, loaded with grief, mournful of my fading faith, and of my vain hope, Oh, my Friday, this renouncing day… **&** Oh, this empty room, Oh, this gloomy home! These opaque walls, isolating me from attacks of youth, these collapsing roofs on my short daydreams of light, this place of solitude, reflection and doubt, this space of hues and shapes, signs and sound, all speak to me- of this invincible void. **&** My life, like a mysterious river, streamed into those silent, deserted days, so calmly, and with a lot of pride. My life, like a mysterious river, Streamed into those empty, gloomy rooms, so calmly and with a lot of pride. By Forough Farrokhzad (from anthology Rebirth) Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2006, Montreal * In Iran, Friday was/is the equivalent of Sunday. ---------------------------------------------------------------- GREEN MIRAGE The whole day, I was crying in the eyes of mirrors. Spring had handed over my window- to the green illusion of the trees. I was not fitting into my lonely wrap; And the smell of my hollow crown- had infested the surround. I could not, I could stand no more- the noisy lane, the cry of birds, the blast of balls, and the screams of a child… And then, the waltz of colorful kites, in all frames of my windows- like soap bubbles- climbing up their white tiny ropes… And that wind, the wind was breathing fast, as if in the darkest depth of a making-love. They were all, pressing on the gates of my mute fort of faith. They were breaking through; And, when they did- they called my soul- by her name. The whole day, I stared into the eyes of my life. Those nervous, fearful eyes, were running away from my sight. Like helpless thieves, they hid- in dark, masking holes. Where was The Peak? When was The Rise? “All these spinning roads will end- in the cold, absorbing mouth of death.” Isn’t it right? What did you give me words, sly words? What did you give me sore limbs? If I’d put a flower on my hair, wouldn’t it be better- than this fake, this paper-made crown, stinking on my head? I don’t know- how the ghost of desert possessed me- and the marvel of moon moved me away- from the faith of flock. And, how the empty hole in my heart grew- and infected the whole heart. I don’t know- how I could stand and watch that Earth, was falling down underneath my feet. And, how I could bear- thta the fever of my lovers- could never reach- the fading hope of the void in my heart. Where was The Peak? When was The Rise? Shelter me blinding, mystifying lights! Shelter me, glowing, quiet homes! Shelter me in the row of your washed cloths- swinging on your roofs! Shelter me in your basin of scented steams! Shelter me perfect, simple women! I watch your fingers tracking- the fantastic course of your unborn child- beyond the depth of your expanding skin. And, I sense that the tears of your robe- spread in the air, the generous perfume of fresh milk. Where was The Peak? When was The Rise? Oh, shelter me, shelter me! Shelter me fire-stoves, lucky charms! Shelter me, singing plates! Shelter me- in the sticky stream of your sink! Shelter me, blue melody of sewing machines! Oh, Shelter me! Shelter me- in the daily quarrel of rugs and brooms… Shelter me, greedy loves! Shelter me, survival instincts! Shelter me- in your stained conquest bed- Shelter me- in its elixir flood and blood. The whole day, like a forsaken remain riding on the tides, alone in my boat, I was heading towards- frightening rocks, deserted isles- towards the darkest, most profound caves- near the most dangerous sharks. And my thin back-bone was shaking- up to the extent of the wits of Death. I could not, I could no more. My footsteps at the end, confessed to the futility of the route- And despair, at last, defeated the patience of my soul. Then spring, that Green Mirage, while passing cross my sight, whispered to me : “Look! You have never advanced, you have been drowning.” By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2006, Montreal. The poem Vahm-e Sabz is from the anthology Tavallody Digar (Rebirth). ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE BIRD WAS JUST A BIRD The birds said: “What a bright day, what a fresh air! Spring has arrived. I must look for my mate.” The bird fled from the edge of wire. The bird soared away towards the clouds- and disappeared fast. Just like a wish, Just like a prayer, Just like a whisper, The bird spread far and wide- in the air. The bird was tiny. The bird was light. The bird was not bright, The bird was lonely, But the bird, well, was truly free. In the sky, Over the ups and downs of the hills and the lanes, Over the traffic lights and over the stop signs, The bird constantly flew. And, in the heights of the peace of her dreams, She finally felt the blue sense of time and space. The bird, well, was just a bird. The bird, well, was truly free. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, February 2007, Santa Barbara ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE BIRD WAS JUST A BIRD The bird said: "What a scent, what sunshine — ah, "Spring has come, "and I shall go in search of my mate." The bird leapt from the edge of the veranda, It flew, like a message, it flew away. The bird was small. The bird did not think. The bird did not read the newspaper. The bird had no debts. The bird did not know people. The bird flew through the air, Above the danger lights, Flying in the heights of unawareness, And the blue moments — It experienced them madly. Ah, the bird was just a bird. Translation by Faranak Omidi ---------------------------------------------------------------- LATER ON... My death will arrive one day, It may be a bright, spring dawn. It may be a distant winter dusk. Or perhaps a silent night- in a foggy, frozen fall. That day, gloomy, bright or cloudy- yet, it will be a day like all the rest: a figment of the future, a picture of the past. That day, My eyes like dark holes, My face like cold marbles; I’ll be taken away in a swift sleep, leaving behind my colorful dreams. My hands will fall on the pallor of a page, My rhyming thoughts will flee from their cage, My mind losing to the vibration of this last verse, there will remain- no sorrow, no pain, no rage. The Earth, incessantly calling my name, they will arrive to place me inside the grave. Oh, perhaps my lovers, at all midnights- will put some flowers on my lone place. Then, the thick shades of my world- will be suddenly pulled away: In the full moon-light, one night- strangers will read my lines… They will step in my little room, a sunny day, in my memory. Next to my mirror yet, they will find a lock of my hair, the signs of my life- my fingerprints. My soul, like a sailboat, It will escape, free of myself and missing from my corpse. I will fade away at the borders of sight, like a vagabond kite, in an endless flight. Days so quickly get to weeks, And weeks become months as fast; You’ll stare into the eyes of the clock, waiting in vain my letters, my calls. But then, My lifeless body will calmly rest- far from you and the pounds of your heart- in the voiceless arms of Mother Earth. Later on, The sun, the wind and the rain, will polish the cold stone of my grave: And lastly I'll be free- forever free- from the myths of return, name and fame. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2006, Montreal. ---------------------------------------------------------------- MY BELOVED My beloved, with his bare bold body- rose over his legs, fearless like death. On his firm face, an array of fine lines- was tailored by the revolt- of his limbs. My beloved surely belongs- to a faded clan. In the depths of his eyes, it seems- A Tartar is constantly on guard- for the advent of knights. In brightness of his teeth, it seems- a primal man- is patiently waiting- for cornering a prey. My beloved is like the earth- in his blunt fated air, in his concrete, cruel rule. My beloved is wildly free. My beloved is like a whole instinct- In the core of a dark isolated isle. My beloved is originally estranged, like veiled gods, like lone monks. My beloved is a male from the ancient eras, and from the natural age of beauty. By his tread, he awakens- the innocent sense of youth. With his aura, he reminds- the fond flavor of mythical tales. He loves with such a faith- all bits of life, all tads of soil all laughs and all the sorrows. He loves with such a faith- The void roads of the parish, the green veins of the trees the slight smell of soap, the fresh taste of milk. My beloved surely belongs- to a faded clan. My beloved, He is a natural man. And in this wicked wonderland He must hide away. My beloved, He is a simple man. And like the last rest of the vast past beliefs, I hide him always away, in the wake of warmth of my breasts. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, September 2006, Montreal. The poem is from the anthology Tavaloddy Digar (Rebirth). ---------------------------------------------------------------- REBIRTH My entire verve– is a dark verse. It will take you– to the unending dawn– of blooms, flight and light. In this verse, I heaved you a sigh, sigh. In this verse, I tied you to the trees, Water and flames. Life perhaps, is that long, shady road, where every day, a woman wanders– with her basket of fruits. Life perhaps, is that rope; the one that a man would hang himself with– in a gray, rainy day,– from a thick branch. Life perhaps, is that child who is running back home. Life perhaps, is those brief smokes, in the lazy, idle times– stolen from two making-loves. Life perhaps, is that still instant, when my eyes sink– in the reflection of your sight. Life perhaps, is its sheltering sense; I will merge it- with the flood of moonlight– and the frozen abode of night. In my little, lonely room, my heart is invaded– by the silent crowd of love. I am keeping track of my life: The beautiful decay of a rose, in this antique vase; the growing plant that you brought; and those birds in their timber cage. They are singing every hour, up to the full depth– of the view. Oh… This is my share. This is my share. My share, is a piece of sky– and a little shade– can take it away. My share, is a gradual descent– from some deserted stairs. It is a sudden landing– in some forsaken, exiling place. My share, is a gloomy march– in the distant garden of my past. My share, is a slow death– for the advent of a voice. The voice– who once said: “I love your hands”. I will plant my hands. I will grow, I know, I know, I know. And a lost bird- will lay lots of eggs– in my inky palms. I will pick a pair of twin cherries, and I will hang them on my ears. I will take two white oleanders, And I will put them charily– on my fingertips. There is a road, full of young, vulgar boys. I used to be their sole muse. They are still hanging– with their untidy hair, with the same thin legs, about the same square. And, they are still thinking– of that little girl, with a shy beam; the girl that one day– faded in the breeze. There is a congested road that my heart, kept it from my childhood neighborhood. The journey of a mass in the row of Time; And loading this arid line, with the weight of its shape; a polished, smooth, even shape– coming from a place, just after the village– of the mirrors. And it is so– that some will remain– and others die. Did you ever meet a fisher who caught a pearl– in the yellow, inert, close-by river? I know a sad, little fairy. She is living in a remote ocean. And she is playing her heart– into a wooden flute. A sad little fairy– who dies every dusk. She is reborn the day after– right at the dawn, from a slight kiss. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, Montréal. The poem Tavallodi Digar is from the anthology Tavallody Digar (Rebirth). ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE BIRD MAY DIE... I feel sad, I feel blue. I go outside and rub my cold fingers- on the sleek shell of the silent night. I see that all lights of contact are dark, All lanes to relate us- are blocked. Nobody will introduce me to the sun, Nobody will take me- to the gathering of doves. Keep the flight in mind, The bird may die. By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, September 2006, Montreal ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE WIND WILL TAKE US AWAY In my little night, alas The storm has a fateful tryst with the sweet sleep of the trees. In my little night, alas The freezing fright of ruin streams. Listen! The shadows are stepping by… We must flee. This bliss seems so odd to me, I am addicted to my despair, I feel that something will disrupt this flowing peace of our quiet night. **&** Listen! The shadows are stepping by… We must flee. Don’t you see? Our roof is shaking in fear of collapse, and over this roof, an immense dark cloud, like a dull, grieving crowd, is expecting the moment of cry. Don’t you hear? Night is marching behind the window’s glass and the wind is cutting our yard’s breath It seems that stranger eyes are watching this house. Listen! The shadows are stepping by… We must flee. **&** You, O green like the soul of the leaves, Put your hands into mine, And hold them like the burning memories of love. You, O green like the soul of the leaves, Leave your lips to the stroke of mine, And savor them like the swell flavor of an old wine. If we forget, The wind will take us away, The wind will take us away. By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, October 2006, Montreal. ---------------------------------------------------------------- ONLY THE SOUND WILL LAST Why shall I mind, why? Birds fled to the aquatic side, The sphere is vertical, The sphere is vertical- And move: rise and fall. At the borders of sight, bright stars rotate. The earth stands steady, seen from the heights. All the black holes are altered to confined circuits and links. And day is an unknown vastness- to the contracted wits of paper-worms. Why shall I mind, why? The route had to cut across my veins, But, don’t you see? The cultivation stand of moon doesn’t agree- with the disposition of defective cells. In the ambiance of sunrise, only the sound, only the sound will adhere- to the active quantum of time. Why shall I mind, why? Why this inert bog is there, why? Isn’t it just to amass the mass of vicious bugs? Don’t you see? Those decomposed corpses had shaped all thoughts of this freezing morgue. In the dark, infirm creatures veil- and insects talk. Why shall I mind, why? Don’t you see? These printed sheets will not prolong, the short life of a shameful thought. I am progeny of the tree, I cannot breathe- in this contaminated air; And a dying bird- has just reminded me of the flight. Don’t you see? The feat is to reach to the bright gates of Sun. And it is to surge into the consciousness of lights, And it is to watch these aged windmills dying out- in the releasing vacuity of space. Why should I mind, why? I milk unripe clusters of wheat with the warmth of my breasts. Sound, sound, only sound, Sound of the clear calls of ice to flow; Sound of the stroke of shines- on the feminine limb of earth; Sound of fertilized sense; Sound of the expanding love; Sound, sound, sound, Only the sound will last! In the land of dwarfs, scales are small, Why shall I mind, why? Don’t you see? I act upon roots of Truth And the constitution of my soul overruled the bounded jurisdiction of the blind. Don’t tell me about the lengthy, wild, howls- and about the pitiful genitals of animals! Don’t tell me about the sorry twist of worms- in the emptiness of limbs! Legacy of martyred flowers committed me to life, Legacy of martyred flowers, Don’t you see? By Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2006, Montreal. One of her last poems, published in the posthumous anthology Cold Season, 1968, Tehran. TRANSLATOR’S NOTE This poem is written in response to a derogatory article published about her where the strong and provocative tone of the poem comes from: Legacy of martyred flowers committed me to life, Legacy of martyred flowers, Don’t you see? **&** This poem is complex in the use of language as well in the use of metaphors and symbols and it was one of the hardest to translate. Note that in the English version ''The sound'' (instead of sound) can both stand for ''right, good, safe, solid, stable...'' and also ''voice, noise...''. In the Persian version, the same double meaning is implied, but it is less explicit. **&** For the sake of comparison another translation, see: Translation by Michael C. Hillmann ---------------------------------------------------------------- IT IS ONLY SOUND THAT REMAINS Why should I stop, why? the birds have gone in search of the blue direction. the horizon is vertical, vertical and movement fountain-like; and at the limits of vision shining planets spin. the earth in elevation reaches repetition, and air wells changes into tunnels of connection; and day is a vastness, which does not fit into narrow mind of newspaper worms. why should I stop? the road passes through the capillaries of life, the quality of the environment in the ship of the uterus of the moon will kill the corrupt cells. and in the chemical space after sunrise there is only sound, sound that will attract the particles of time. why should I stop? what can a swamp be? what can a swamp be but the spawning ground of corrupt insects? swollen corpses scrawl the morgue's thoughts, the unmanly one has hidden his lack of manliness in blackness, and the bug... ah, when the bug talks, why should I stop? cooperation of lead letters is futile, it will not save the lowly thought. I am a descendant of the house of trees. breathing stale air depresses me. a bird which died advised me to commit flight to memory. the ultimate extent of powers is union, joining with the bright principle of the sun and pouring into the understanding of light. it is natural for windmills to fall apart. why should I stop? I clasp to my breast the unripe bunches of wheat and breastfeed them sound, sound, only sound, the sound of the limpid wishes of water to flow, the sound of the falling of star light on the wall of earth's femininity the sound of the binding of meaning's sperm and the expansion of the shared mind of love. sound, sound, sound, only sound remains. in the land of dwarfs, the criteria of comparison have always traveled in the orbit of zero. why should I stop? I obey the four elements; and the job of drawing up the constitution of my heart is not the business of the local government of the blind. what is the lengthy whimpering wildness in animals sexual organs to me? what to me is the worm's humble movement In its fleshy vacuum? the bleeding ancestry of flowers has committed me to life. are you familiar with the bleeding ancestry of the flowers? Michael C. Hillmann ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE WAVE To me you are a wave; never here, never there! You are –still- nowhere! Grabbing, dragging, then fleeing away, you swiftly spread- like a deadly plague, on the run for the Other Soil, your destination's vague! Watching you- from far and wide, in my seized eye, you’re a rebellious tide- in an eternal glide. Insistent, impatient, then a restless errant, you must be calm in heart, fretful just in act! And I now know, the sea of regret- is your native land. Yes, you are an unruly tide! So always on the ride, in an eternal glide! But one night, I will wear a mask- made of the thirst- of the remotest shores, and their desert islands. And I’ll capture you- in my absorbing sands, forever far away- from your naval natal lands. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2006, Montreal The poem The Wave (Mo'j) is from her earlier anthology The Wall (Divar), first published in 1956, Tehran. ---------------------------------------------------------------- WINDOW A window to see- A window to hear- A round window like an unending well: It should reach to the blazing core of Earth. And it should release into- its gentle, lightly air. A window that loads lonely, little hands- with the nocturnal scent of generous stars. A window that invites the sun- to the glacial exile of blooms. A window, A window is enough for me. I am coming from the land of puppets, And from underneath shades of painted trees- in the printed gardens of fiction books. I am coming from- arid seasons of thrill- and barren years of romance, from deserted lanes of innocence, from the age of pastel faced letters. I am coming from- behind benches of a tired class. And from that confusing time- when I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board- and terrified birds- fled from naked branches of the trees. I arrive from beneath roots of carnivorous trees, And my mind is still filled -with the fearful cries of dried butterflies- under weighty volumes of pale, aged books. When my trust was hung- from the frail justice line of this town, And in the streets, they were cutting off the head of my torch, When they blind-folded the innocent eyes of my love, When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams, And when my life was nothing- but the regular chant of a Grandfather clock, I realized that I had to love, I had to love madly. A window is enough for me. A window to the instance of light, insight and peace. Now, the little walnut tree- that you had once known- is so grown, grown, so grown, that it can narrate the tale of wall- to its young leaves. Ask the name of The Redeemer from mirrors! Don’t you see? This trembling ground- underneath your bare feet- is lonelier than you. The verdict of this ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes; And these infected clouds and incessant blasts, perhaps, stem from those sacred words. My friend! Don’t forget! When you land on the moon, engrave the date of the carnage- of young flowers of this Earth- on its sad, soft, wrinkled face. Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die. And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest, a little plant, with four tiny leaves, constantly grows. I smell this plant. A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope. Is she the remnant of my youth? A gentle god was taking nightly walks- in the fresh air of the roofs. Will I climb again, climb again- the curious steepness of the stairs- to greet him? I feel that the time had left. I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past. I feel that in this stand, there is only an unreal void, distancing my hair- from the hands of a sad, stranger guest. Talk to me! And I reward you- with the igniting love- of a whole life. And, I expect you nothing- but the reflection of its birth- in a glance of your eyes. Talk to me! Don’t you see? In shelter of my window, I am attached to the sun. By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montréal The poem is from the anthology Tavaloddy Digar (Rebirth). ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE GIFT I am speaking to you- from the edge of darkness, and about the depths of night. I reach out to you- from the thick layers of absolute shade. Darling! If you are coming to visit me, Then, bring me a torch, and put up for me- a little window. I will then watch- the noisy crowd of the happy lane. By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2006, Montreal The poem Hadyeh is from the anthology Tavallody Digar (Rebirth) ---------------------------------------------------------------- SOMEONE WHO IS LIKE NO ONE I had a dream, someone will come. I had a dream, someone is coming- for sure. I had a dream about a red star, And my eyes are blinking all the time, And my steps join up, out of the blue. I swear to God! I don’t lie! I dreamed about a red, shiny star- when I was, like, awake. Someone will come, I know. Someone is coming, Someone else, Someone better, Someone who is like no one! Someone who is not like my daddy, And is not even like my mom. Someone who is not like Ali, And is not like Sara. Someone who is like no one- But like the one who “ought to be”. And, he is taller than our neighbors’ trees, And his face is brighter than Mohamed’s face. He is not afraid of Mr. Nour’ brother- who wears a marine uniform- and has a huge, huge pistol. He is not even scared of Mr. Nour- who owns all of our buildings’ rooms. He must be a Saint, for sure! I know, he can read my sister’s English book- with closed eyes. I know, he can take a thousand off a million- just very-very fast. And, and he can do something- and we won’t have any blackout, especially on Friday nights. And he can make the Allah neon, on the top of the mosque, become bright and green again. Oh, I like that green neon a lot! I like all colorful lights! And I want Ali to have a bike, with a big, red, flash light; And I want to sit on the back of his bike, And turn around the square. Oh, I like biking around the square so much! It is so good to go to the park; And it is so good to have an ice cream; And it is so good to drink a coke; And it is so good to go to a movie. I like all those good things a lot. I am so little, and I always get lost in the streets. But daddy is not little- at all, And he knows all the streets in our town. Why he doesn’t do something- for The One, the red star in my dream, to come here now? Why he cannot make my dream-come true? Why nobody does anything? Oh, this sun is so lazy, and it is still cold… But I have cleaned up everywhere, I have even washed all the stairs, and I have opened all the windows. Why my daddy doesn’t dream at all? It is still cold… But I have cleaned up everywhere, I have even washed all the stairs, and I have opened all the windows. Someone will come, Someone is coming, Someone who walks with me, Someone who is in my heart, Someone who hears me breathing, Someone who sees me dreaming of him. Someone who hears me talking, talking about him. I know, Nobody can catch Him. I know, Nobody can jail Him. I feel that He is growing on the other side of the fence, I feel that He is singing with all the drops of rains. and the falling of leaves. Someone will come, Maybe, on the day of Firework Show. Someone will come, and will bring fresh bread, butter and cream, and a big pot of soup with lots carrots and potatoes. Someone will come, And will fairly divide the park, the coke and the soup, And will give everybody his share. I know, He will give me my share too. Someone will come, Someone is coming, I had a dream. By: Forough Farokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2006, Montreal. The poem is from the posthumous anthology Let us believe in the beginning of the Cold Season, 1968, Tehran. ---------------------------------------------------------------- ONE DAY ALI TOLD HIS MOM… The little Ali, The spoiled Ali, woke up suddenly- At exact midnight. He rubbed his eyes- with his little hands. He yawned twice- and then he sat. What had happened? What had he seen? *** He had a dream, about a fish; A shiny, gilded fish, soft, sleek, slick, light, bright, slight. It was like sunshine- Across a navy pane, throwing sparkle and stars- to both Ali’s eyes. And finally, she laid on surface with its tiny wings, padding water’s face. It smelt so good, like washed, clean sheets, like new notebooks, like presents’ wraps. It felt like warm nights- on the top of roof. It felt like stars, like rain, like a full moon. It smelt like candy, like chocolate, jelly. It was just- so pretty. It looked like a goddess, bathing in heavenly lakes, It looked like a saint with a golden crown, It looked like divine visions of Paradise. Whatever it was, Whoever she was, Bewitched our Ali… Yes, Little Ali- fell madly in love- with that shiny fish. As soon as Ali, pulled his small hands- to catch that piece of art, that rare beauty, Sky got mad, ranting and raving; Storm started roaring and raging. Rain poured down like hell. Then the soil tore off, and took up the fish. Little Ali was left alone, in his tiny bed, with no dream, with no shiny fish, upset and in daze! *** Unfinsihed, to be continued... By: Forough Farrokhzad Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, Montreal. The poem is from the anthology Tavaloddy Digar (Rebirth). ---------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------