Morḡ-e saḥar, nāla sar kon!
dāḡ-e marā tāzatar kon
z-āh-e šararbār in qafas-rā
baršekan o zir o zabar kon
bolbol-e par-basta ze konj-e qafas dar-ā
naḡma-ye āzādi-e nawʿ-e bašar sarā
w-az nafas-i ʿarṣa-ye in ḵāk-e tuda-rā
por šarar kon, por šarar kon
ẓolm-e ẓālem, jawr-e ṣayyād
āšiān-am dāda bar bād
ey ḵodā, ey falak, ey ṭabiʿat
šām-e tārik-e mā-rā saḥar kon
nowbahār ast, gol ba bār ast
abr-e časm-am žala-bār ast
in qafas čun del-am tang o tār ast
šoʿla fekan dar qafas ey āh-e ātašin
dast-e tabiʿat, gol-e ʿomr-e marā mačin
jāneb-e ʿāšeq negar ey tāza gol---az in
bištar kon, bištar kon, bištar kon
morḡ-e bidel, šarḥ-e hejrān
moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar kon
ʿomr-e ḥaqiqat ba-sar šod
ʿaḥd o wafā pey-separ šod
nala-ye ʿāšeq, nāz-e maʿšuq
har do doruḡ o bi-aṯar šod
rāsti o mehr o moḥabbat fasāna šod
qawl o šarāfat hamagi az miāna šod
az pey-e dozdi, waṭan o din bahāna šod, dida tar šod
ẓolm-e malek, jawr-e arbāb
zāreʿ az ḡam gašta bitāb
sāḡar-e aḡniā por mey-e nāb
jamʿ-e mā por ze ḵun-e jegar šod
ey del-e tang nāla sar kon
az qawi-dastān ḥaẕar kon
az mosāwāt ṣarf-e-naẓar kon
sāqi-e gol-čehra, bedeh āb-e ātašin
parda-ye delkaš bezan, ey yār-e delnešin
nāla bar-ār az qafas ey bolbol-e ḥazin
k-az ḡam-e to sina-ye man
por šarar, por šarar, por šarar šod.
Dawn bird, lament!
Make my brand burn even more.
With the sparks from your sigh, break
And turn this cage upside down.
Wing-tied nightingale come out of the corner of your cage, and
Sing the song of freedom for human kind.
With your fiery breath ignite,
The breath of this peopled land.
The cruelty of the cruel and the tyranny of the hunter
Have blown away my nest.
O God, O Heavens, O Nature,
Turn our dark night to dawn.
It’s a new spring, roses are in bloom
Dew drops are falling from my cloudy eyes
This cage, like my heart, is narrow and dark.
O fiery sigh set alight this cage
O fate, do not pick the flower of my life.
O rose, look towards this lover,
Look again, again, again.
O heart-lost bird, shorten, shorten, shorten,
The tale of separation.
Truth’s life has come to an end
Faith and fidelity have been replaced by the shield of war.
Lover’s lament and beloved’s coyness,
Are but lies and have no power.
Truth, love and affection are but myths
Oath and honour are but vanished.
For thieving, country and religion are pretexts, eyes are wet
Landlord’s cruelty, master’s tyranny,
The farmer’s restless from sorrow.
The cup of the rich is full of pure wine,
Our cup is filled with our heart’s blood.
O anxious heart, cry out aloud
And avoid those who have powerful hands,
Count not on justice.
O rosy-cheeked cup-bearer, give the fiery water,
Play a joyful tune, O charming friend.
O sad nightingale lament from your cage.
Because of your grief my heart is
Full of sparks, sparks, sparks.
--- Moḥammad-Taqi Bahār
Persian लेबलों वाले संदेश दिखाए जा रहे हैं. सभी संदेश दिखाएं
Persian लेबलों वाले संदेश दिखाए जा रहे हैं. सभी संदेश दिखाएं
3 अप्रैल 2024
24 नवंबर 2021
'करियर का चुनाव'
मैं कभी साधारण बैंक कर्मचारी नहीं बन सकता था खाने-पीने के सामानों का सेल्समैन भी नहीं
किसी पार्टी का मुखिया भी नहीं
न ही टैक्सी ड्राइवर
प्रचार में लगा मार्केटिंग वाला भी नहीं
मैं बस इतना चाहता था
कि शहर की सबसे ऊँची जगह पर खड़ा होकर
नीचे ठसाठस इमारतों के बीच उस औरत का घर देखूँ
जिससे मैं प्यार करता हूँ
इसलिए मैं बाँधकाम मज़दूर बन गया।
किसी पार्टी का मुखिया भी नहीं
न ही टैक्सी ड्राइवर
प्रचार में लगा मार्केटिंग वाला भी नहीं
मैं बस इतना चाहता था
कि शहर की सबसे ऊँची जगह पर खड़ा होकर
नीचे ठसाठस इमारतों के बीच उस औरत का घर देखूँ
जिससे मैं प्यार करता हूँ
इसलिए मैं बाँधकाम मज़दूर बन गया।
---सबीर हका
अनुवाद - गीत चतुर्वेदी
साभार- कविताकोश
साभार- कविताकोश
21 मार्च 2016
ईरानी कविता
शहतूत
क्या आपने कभी शहतूत देखा है,
जहां गिरता है, उतनी ज़मीन पर
उसके लाल रस का धब्बा पड़ जाता है.
गिरने से ज़्यादा पीड़ादायी कुछ नहीं.
मैंने कितने मज़दूरों को देखा है
इमारतों से गिरते हुए,
गिरकर शहतूत बन जाते हुए.
(ईश्वर)
(ईश्वर) भी एक मज़दूर है
ज़रूर वह वेल्डरों का भी वेल्डर होगा.
शाम की रोशनी में
उसकी आंखें अंगारों जैसी लाल होती हैं,
रात उसकी क़मीज़ पर
छेद ही छेद होते हैं.
बंदूक़
अगर उन्होंने बंदूक़ का आविष्कार न किया होता
तो कितने लोग, दूर से ही,
मारे जाने से बच जाते.
कई सारी चीज़ें आसान हो जातीं.
उन्हें मज़दूरों की ताक़त का अहसास दिलाना भी
कहीं ज़्यादा आसान होता.
मृत्यु का ख़ौफ़
ताउम्र मैंने इस बात पर भरोसा किया
कि झूठ बोलना ग़लत होता है
ग़लत होता है किसी को परेशान करना
ताउम्र मैं इस बात को स्वीकार किया
कि मौत भी जि़ंदगी का एक हिस्सा है
इसके बाद भी मुझे मृत्यु से डर लगता है
डर लगता है दूसरी दुनिया में भी मजदूर बने रहने से.
कॅरियर का चुनाव
मैं कभी साधारण बैंक कर्मचारी नहीं बन सकता था
खाने-पीने के सामानों का सेल्समैन भी नहीं
किसी पार्टी का मुखिया भी नहीं
न तो टैक्सी ड्राइवर
प्रचार में लगा मार्केटिंग वाला भी नहीं
मैं बस इतना चाहता था
कि शहर की सबसे ऊंची जगह पर खड़ा होकर
नीचे ठसाठस इमारतों के बीच उस औरत का घर देखूं
जिससे मैं प्यार करता हूं
इसलिए मैं बांधकाम मज़दूर बन गया.
मेरे पिता
अगर अपने पिता के बारे में कुछ कहने की हिम्मत करूं
तो मेरी बात का भरोसा करना,
उनके जीवन ने उन्हें बहुत कम आनंद दिया
वह शख़्स अपने परिवार के लिए समर्पित था
परिवार की कमियों को छिपाने के लिए
उसने अपना जीवन कठोर और ख़ुरदुरा बना लिया
और अब
अपनी कविताएं छपवाते हुए
मुझे सिर्फ़ एक बात का संकोच होता है
कि मेरे पिता पढ़ नहीं सकते.
आस्था
मेरे पिता मज़दूर थे
आस्था से भरे हुए इंसान
जब भी वह नमाज़ पढ़ते थे
(अल्लाह) उनके हाथों को देख शर्मिंदा हो जाता था.
मृत्यु
मेरी मां ने कहा
उसने मृत्यु को देख रखा है
उसके बड़ी-बड़ी घनी मूंछें हैं
और उसकी क़द-काठी, जैसे कोई बौराया हुआ इंसान.
उस रात से
मां की मासूमियत को
मैं शक से देखने लगा हूं.
राजनीति
बड़े-बड़े बदलाव भी
कितनी आसानी से कर दिए जाते हैं.
हाथ-काम करने वाले मज़दूरों को
राजनीतिक कार्यकर्ताओं में बदल देना भी
कितना आसान रहा, है न!
क्रेनें इस बदलाव को उठाती हैं
और सूली तक पहुंचाती हैं.
दोस्ती
मैं (ईश्वर) का दोस्त नहीं हूं
इसका सिर्फ़ एक ही कारण है
जिसकी जड़ें बहुत पुराने अतीत में हैं :
जब छह लोगों का हमारा परिवार
एक तंग कमरे में रहता था
और (ईश्वर) के पास बहुत बड़ा मकान था
जिसमें वह अकेले ही रहता था
सरहदें
जैसे कफ़न ढंक देता है लाश को
बर्फ़ भी बहुत सारी चीज़ों को ढंक लेती है.
ढंक लेती है इमारतों के कंकाल को
पेड़ों को, क़ब्रों को सफ़ेद बना देती है
और सिर्फ़ बर्फ़ ही है जो
सरहदों को भी सफ़ेद कर सकती है.
घर
मैं पूरी दुनिया के लिए कह सकता हूं यह शब्द
दुनिया के हर देश के लिए कह सकता हूं
मैं आसमान को भी कह सकता हूं
इस ब्रह्मांड की हरेक चीज़ को भी.
लेकिन तेहरान के इस बिना खिड़की वाले किराए के कमरे को
नहीं कह सकता,
मैं इसे घर नहीं कह सकता.
सरकार
कुछ अरसा हुआ
पुलिस मुझे तलाश रही है
मैंने किसी की हत्या नहीं की
मैंने सरकार के खि़लाफ़ कोई लेख भी नहीं लिखा
सिर्फ़ तुम जानती हो, मेरी प्रियतमा
कि जनता के लिए कितना त्रासद होगा
अगर सरकार महज़ इस कारण मुझसे डरने लगे
कि मैं एक मज़दूर हूं
अगर मैं क्रांतिकारी या बाग़ी होता
तब क्या करते वे?
फिर भी उस लड़के के लिए यह दुनिया
कोई बहुत ज़्यादा बदली नहीं है
जो स्कूल की सारी किताबों के पहले पन्ने पर
अपनी तस्वीर छपी देखना चाहता था.
इकलौता डर
जब मैं मरूंगा
अपने साथ अपनी सारी प्रिय किताबों को ले जाऊंगा
अपनी क़ब्र को भर दूंगा
उन लोगों की तस्वीरों से जिनसे मैंने प्यार किया.
मेर नये घर में कोई जगह नहीं होगी
भविष्य के प्रति डर के लिए.
मैं लेटा रहूंगा. मैं सिगरेट सुलगाऊंगा
और रोऊंगा उन तमाम औरतों को याद कर
जिन्हें मैं गले लगाना चाहता था.
इन सारी प्रसन्नताओं के बीच भी
एक डर बचा रहता है :
कि एक रोज़, भोरे-भोर,
कोई कंधा झिंझोड़कर जगाएगा मुझे और बोलेगा -
'अबे उठ जा सबीर, काम पे चलना है|
---सबीर हका,
अनुवाद : गीत चतुर्वेदी
क्या आपने कभी शहतूत देखा है,
जहां गिरता है, उतनी ज़मीन पर
उसके लाल रस का धब्बा पड़ जाता है.
गिरने से ज़्यादा पीड़ादायी कुछ नहीं.
मैंने कितने मज़दूरों को देखा है
इमारतों से गिरते हुए,
गिरकर शहतूत बन जाते हुए.
(ईश्वर)
(ईश्वर) भी एक मज़दूर है
ज़रूर वह वेल्डरों का भी वेल्डर होगा.
शाम की रोशनी में
उसकी आंखें अंगारों जैसी लाल होती हैं,
रात उसकी क़मीज़ पर
छेद ही छेद होते हैं.
बंदूक़
अगर उन्होंने बंदूक़ का आविष्कार न किया होता
तो कितने लोग, दूर से ही,
मारे जाने से बच जाते.
कई सारी चीज़ें आसान हो जातीं.
उन्हें मज़दूरों की ताक़त का अहसास दिलाना भी
कहीं ज़्यादा आसान होता.
मृत्यु का ख़ौफ़
ताउम्र मैंने इस बात पर भरोसा किया
कि झूठ बोलना ग़लत होता है
ग़लत होता है किसी को परेशान करना
ताउम्र मैं इस बात को स्वीकार किया
कि मौत भी जि़ंदगी का एक हिस्सा है
इसके बाद भी मुझे मृत्यु से डर लगता है
डर लगता है दूसरी दुनिया में भी मजदूर बने रहने से.
कॅरियर का चुनाव
मैं कभी साधारण बैंक कर्मचारी नहीं बन सकता था
खाने-पीने के सामानों का सेल्समैन भी नहीं
किसी पार्टी का मुखिया भी नहीं
न तो टैक्सी ड्राइवर
प्रचार में लगा मार्केटिंग वाला भी नहीं
मैं बस इतना चाहता था
कि शहर की सबसे ऊंची जगह पर खड़ा होकर
नीचे ठसाठस इमारतों के बीच उस औरत का घर देखूं
जिससे मैं प्यार करता हूं
इसलिए मैं बांधकाम मज़दूर बन गया.
मेरे पिता
अगर अपने पिता के बारे में कुछ कहने की हिम्मत करूं
तो मेरी बात का भरोसा करना,
उनके जीवन ने उन्हें बहुत कम आनंद दिया
वह शख़्स अपने परिवार के लिए समर्पित था
परिवार की कमियों को छिपाने के लिए
उसने अपना जीवन कठोर और ख़ुरदुरा बना लिया
और अब
अपनी कविताएं छपवाते हुए
मुझे सिर्फ़ एक बात का संकोच होता है
कि मेरे पिता पढ़ नहीं सकते.
आस्था
मेरे पिता मज़दूर थे
आस्था से भरे हुए इंसान
जब भी वह नमाज़ पढ़ते थे
(अल्लाह) उनके हाथों को देख शर्मिंदा हो जाता था.
मृत्यु
मेरी मां ने कहा
उसने मृत्यु को देख रखा है
उसके बड़ी-बड़ी घनी मूंछें हैं
और उसकी क़द-काठी, जैसे कोई बौराया हुआ इंसान.
उस रात से
मां की मासूमियत को
मैं शक से देखने लगा हूं.
राजनीति
बड़े-बड़े बदलाव भी
कितनी आसानी से कर दिए जाते हैं.
हाथ-काम करने वाले मज़दूरों को
राजनीतिक कार्यकर्ताओं में बदल देना भी
कितना आसान रहा, है न!
क्रेनें इस बदलाव को उठाती हैं
और सूली तक पहुंचाती हैं.
दोस्ती
मैं (ईश्वर) का दोस्त नहीं हूं
इसका सिर्फ़ एक ही कारण है
जिसकी जड़ें बहुत पुराने अतीत में हैं :
जब छह लोगों का हमारा परिवार
एक तंग कमरे में रहता था
और (ईश्वर) के पास बहुत बड़ा मकान था
जिसमें वह अकेले ही रहता था
सरहदें
जैसे कफ़न ढंक देता है लाश को
बर्फ़ भी बहुत सारी चीज़ों को ढंक लेती है.
ढंक लेती है इमारतों के कंकाल को
पेड़ों को, क़ब्रों को सफ़ेद बना देती है
और सिर्फ़ बर्फ़ ही है जो
सरहदों को भी सफ़ेद कर सकती है.
घर
मैं पूरी दुनिया के लिए कह सकता हूं यह शब्द
दुनिया के हर देश के लिए कह सकता हूं
मैं आसमान को भी कह सकता हूं
इस ब्रह्मांड की हरेक चीज़ को भी.
लेकिन तेहरान के इस बिना खिड़की वाले किराए के कमरे को
नहीं कह सकता,
मैं इसे घर नहीं कह सकता.
सरकार
कुछ अरसा हुआ
पुलिस मुझे तलाश रही है
मैंने किसी की हत्या नहीं की
मैंने सरकार के खि़लाफ़ कोई लेख भी नहीं लिखा
सिर्फ़ तुम जानती हो, मेरी प्रियतमा
कि जनता के लिए कितना त्रासद होगा
अगर सरकार महज़ इस कारण मुझसे डरने लगे
कि मैं एक मज़दूर हूं
अगर मैं क्रांतिकारी या बाग़ी होता
तब क्या करते वे?
फिर भी उस लड़के के लिए यह दुनिया
कोई बहुत ज़्यादा बदली नहीं है
जो स्कूल की सारी किताबों के पहले पन्ने पर
अपनी तस्वीर छपी देखना चाहता था.
इकलौता डर
जब मैं मरूंगा
अपने साथ अपनी सारी प्रिय किताबों को ले जाऊंगा
अपनी क़ब्र को भर दूंगा
उन लोगों की तस्वीरों से जिनसे मैंने प्यार किया.
मेर नये घर में कोई जगह नहीं होगी
भविष्य के प्रति डर के लिए.
मैं लेटा रहूंगा. मैं सिगरेट सुलगाऊंगा
और रोऊंगा उन तमाम औरतों को याद कर
जिन्हें मैं गले लगाना चाहता था.
इन सारी प्रसन्नताओं के बीच भी
एक डर बचा रहता है :
कि एक रोज़, भोरे-भोर,
कोई कंधा झिंझोड़कर जगाएगा मुझे और बोलेगा -
'अबे उठ जा सबीर, काम पे चलना है|
---सबीर हका,
अनुवाद : गीत चतुर्वेदी
24 अगस्त 2012
Negah Kon
Listen!
(1)
The bad year,
The sad year,
The windy year,
The tearful year,
The year of overwhelming doubts.
The year,
whose days were running too long,
and its patience-falling too short.
The year that Pride,
the year that Sense of Pride,
begged at their knees.
The year of plight,
The lowly year,
The year of shadow-
and sorrow.
The year Poury cried;
The year of Morteza’s blood;
The resigning leap year…
(2)
Life is not a trap.
Love is not a trap.
Not even death has ever been a trap-
a trap to me.
For the dearly loved-
and the dearly dead,
fly free, fly in freedom,
fine and whole.
(3)
I found my love in the bad year,
in the sad year,
and it repeats to me-
again and again:
“Do not give in!”
I found my hope in the ocean of despair,
My silvery moonlight in the dark night,
My love in the year of plight,
And exactly when-
I was about to turn into ash-
I went on fire.
Life was spiteful to me-
but somehow-
I could just smile.
This earth was cruel to me-
but somehow-
I could just lay unafraid-
on the ground.
For perhaps,
looking inside-
I could somehow decide-
that life is not dark,
and Earth is neat.
***
I was bad.
But I was not evil.
I escaped from Evil.
And the whole world cursed me.
Then,
the bad year,
the sad year arrived:
The year Poury cried;
The year of Morteza’s blood;
The year of gloom.
But somehow,
somewhere-
in that year-
I found the stars,
I found the sublime,
I found the good.
And I bloomed.
You are fine.
And it is a confession.
I have already-
confessed and cried-
many times.
Now,
I can somehow-
confess and smile.
Perhaps for I could decide-
the first and the last,
the dark and the light,
and days and nights,
are meant to merge.
(4)
You are fine.
And I was not evil.
I found you somewhere in this world-
and my might,
and my words,
my flesh and my soul,
all turned into poem.
Even the hardest rocks-
turned into poem.
And,
Evil turned into a verse,
And the verse turned into beauty.
So the Heavens sang,
the birds sang,
and water danced.
I asked you:
“Be my small sparrow and I become-
by your return, next spring-
a blossomed tree.”
The snow melted,
flowers beamed.
And Sun smiled.
And I watched,
And I somehow changed.
To you,
I now confess:
“You are swell,
and the bad year,
the sad year, well,
is gone.”
You smiled.
And I came back-
to Life.
(5)
I want to be good.
I want to be you!
This is all I can now confess.
Listen!
Stay with me!
Stay forever- if you please!
By Ahmad Shamlou
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2009, New Brunswick
Translated from the poem "Negah Kon" first published in the anthology Havay-e Tazeh (Fresh Air) 1957, Tehran.
(1)
The bad year,
The sad year,
The windy year,
The tearful year,
The year of overwhelming doubts.
The year,
whose days were running too long,
and its patience-falling too short.
The year that Pride,
the year that Sense of Pride,
begged at their knees.
The year of plight,
The lowly year,
The year of shadow-
and sorrow.
The year Poury cried;
The year of Morteza’s blood;
The resigning leap year…
(2)
Life is not a trap.
Love is not a trap.
Not even death has ever been a trap-
a trap to me.
For the dearly loved-
and the dearly dead,
fly free, fly in freedom,
fine and whole.
(3)
I found my love in the bad year,
in the sad year,
and it repeats to me-
again and again:
“Do not give in!”
I found my hope in the ocean of despair,
My silvery moonlight in the dark night,
My love in the year of plight,
And exactly when-
I was about to turn into ash-
I went on fire.
Life was spiteful to me-
but somehow-
I could just smile.
This earth was cruel to me-
but somehow-
I could just lay unafraid-
on the ground.
For perhaps,
looking inside-
I could somehow decide-
that life is not dark,
and Earth is neat.
***
I was bad.
But I was not evil.
I escaped from Evil.
And the whole world cursed me.
Then,
the bad year,
the sad year arrived:
The year Poury cried;
The year of Morteza’s blood;
The year of gloom.
But somehow,
somewhere-
in that year-
I found the stars,
I found the sublime,
I found the good.
And I bloomed.
You are fine.
And it is a confession.
I have already-
confessed and cried-
many times.
Now,
I can somehow-
confess and smile.
Perhaps for I could decide-
the first and the last,
the dark and the light,
and days and nights,
are meant to merge.
(4)
You are fine.
And I was not evil.
I found you somewhere in this world-
and my might,
and my words,
my flesh and my soul,
all turned into poem.
Even the hardest rocks-
turned into poem.
And,
Evil turned into a verse,
And the verse turned into beauty.
So the Heavens sang,
the birds sang,
and water danced.
I asked you:
“Be my small sparrow and I become-
by your return, next spring-
a blossomed tree.”
The snow melted,
flowers beamed.
And Sun smiled.
And I watched,
And I somehow changed.
To you,
I now confess:
“You are swell,
and the bad year,
the sad year, well,
is gone.”
You smiled.
And I came back-
to Life.
(5)
I want to be good.
I want to be you!
This is all I can now confess.
Listen!
Stay with me!
Stay forever- if you please!
By Ahmad Shamlou
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2009, New Brunswick
Translated from the poem "Negah Kon" first published in the anthology Havay-e Tazeh (Fresh Air) 1957, Tehran.
26 फ़रवरी 2011
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
Friends are enemies sometimes, and enemies friends.
I was a tiny bug. Now a mountain. I was left behind. Now honored at the head. You healed my wounded hunger and anger, and made me a poet who sings about joy.
If your guidance is your ego, don’t rely on luck for help. you sleep during the day and the nights are short. By the time you wake up your life may be over.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about events going badly. Let the lover be.
Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
Most people guard against going into the fire, and so end up in it.
My friend, the sufi is the friend of the present moment. To say tomorrow is not our way.
Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure. Whoever heard of keeping a crow?
No longer a stranger, you listen all day to these crazy love-words. Like a bee you fill hundreds of homes with honey, though yours is a long flight from here.
No mirror ever became iron again; No bread ever became wheat; No ripened grape ever became sour fruit. Mature yourself and be secure from a change for the worse. Become the light.
Only from the heart Can you touch the sky.
Patience is the key to joy.
People of the world don’t look at themselves, and so they blame one another.
Since in order to speak, one must first listen, learn to speak by listening.
That which is false troubles the heart, but truth brings joyous tranquility.
The intelligent want self-control; children want candy.
The middle path is the way to wisdom.
The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart.
Thirst drove me down to the water where I drank the moon’s reflection.
To praise is to praise how one surrenders to the emptiness.
We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust.
We rarely hear the inward music, but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless.
You think the shadow is the substance.
---Jalal-Uddin Rumi (1207-1273)
Friends are enemies sometimes, and enemies friends.
I was a tiny bug. Now a mountain. I was left behind. Now honored at the head. You healed my wounded hunger and anger, and made me a poet who sings about joy.
If your guidance is your ego, don’t rely on luck for help. you sleep during the day and the nights are short. By the time you wake up your life may be over.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about events going badly. Let the lover be.
Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
Most people guard against going into the fire, and so end up in it.
My friend, the sufi is the friend of the present moment. To say tomorrow is not our way.
Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure. Whoever heard of keeping a crow?
No longer a stranger, you listen all day to these crazy love-words. Like a bee you fill hundreds of homes with honey, though yours is a long flight from here.
No mirror ever became iron again; No bread ever became wheat; No ripened grape ever became sour fruit. Mature yourself and be secure from a change for the worse. Become the light.
Only from the heart Can you touch the sky.
Patience is the key to joy.
People of the world don’t look at themselves, and so they blame one another.
Since in order to speak, one must first listen, learn to speak by listening.
That which is false troubles the heart, but truth brings joyous tranquility.
The intelligent want self-control; children want candy.
The middle path is the way to wisdom.
The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart.
Thirst drove me down to the water where I drank the moon’s reflection.
To praise is to praise how one surrenders to the emptiness.
We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust.
We rarely hear the inward music, but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless.
You think the shadow is the substance.
---Jalal-Uddin Rumi (1207-1273)
15 अक्टूबर 2010
The Martyr
(1)
Look how vast
his sheltering shade
spreads on the Earth
with humility
and with glory!
His hands
alike the branches of
the Holy Tree of Life
glows with the light of love.
His fearless revolt,
his far reaching revlot,
burned the gates of Hell
shook the walls of Hell.
Hi Death,
not from the cold lame of the awaiting razor blades
Or the sentinl of the poisoned swords:
His death landed on his shoulders,
like the spring's last sparrow,
from his smoky cloud of sorrow
running behind him for years.
And that fortress of might,
his Heart,
the Heart whose key,
the candid verse of amity,
collapsed onto itself,
But never fell apart.
(2)
In the era of forceful negation of love
entwined with himself,
with his captive voice:
He such became, himself,
The Anthem of Love.
And he such became,
he such became himself:
The Elegy of Love.
(3)
Look how chaste
Look how vast
he streams on the Earth
with humility and with glory!
And he such engraves
the effigy of nobility and of truth
on the heart of the rocks!
Look how pure he fades away in the Sea
with humility and with glory!
And look how gracious he kneels in front of your thighs
with humility and with glory!
Look!
His death was the birthday of so very many Knights.
---By Ahmad Shamlou
-Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
The poem's original title translates as: "The Birth of the one who lovingly died on the Earth". It was first published in the anthology Abraham in Fire 1973, Tehran.
Look how vast
his sheltering shade
spreads on the Earth
with humility
and with glory!
His hands
alike the branches of
the Holy Tree of Life
glows with the light of love.
His fearless revolt,
his far reaching revlot,
burned the gates of Hell
shook the walls of Hell.
Hi Death,
not from the cold lame of the awaiting razor blades
Or the sentinl of the poisoned swords:
His death landed on his shoulders,
like the spring's last sparrow,
from his smoky cloud of sorrow
running behind him for years.
And that fortress of might,
his Heart,
the Heart whose key,
the candid verse of amity,
collapsed onto itself,
But never fell apart.
(2)
In the era of forceful negation of love
entwined with himself,
with his captive voice:
He such became, himself,
The Anthem of Love.
And he such became,
he such became himself:
The Elegy of Love.
(3)
Look how chaste
Look how vast
he streams on the Earth
with humility and with glory!
And he such engraves
the effigy of nobility and of truth
on the heart of the rocks!
Look how pure he fades away in the Sea
with humility and with glory!
And look how gracious he kneels in front of your thighs
with humility and with glory!
Look!
His death was the birthday of so very many Knights.
---By Ahmad Shamlou
-Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
The poem's original title translates as: "The Birth of the one who lovingly died on the Earth". It was first published in the anthology Abraham in Fire 1973, Tehran.
The Elegy
For Forough Farrokhzad's death
In the quest for you
I sobbed at the knees of the mount,
at the edge of the sea and the turf.
In the quest for you
I moaned with the wind.
Along the eroded face of the routes,
At the crossroad of seasons.
And over a broken window
which made a wooden frame
for the cloudy blues of the skies.
In hope of your image
How long, long, how long,
this frame will remain plain?
Your charm,
was allowing for the passage of the breeze
and of love, and also of death
which confided in you
their perpetual insights.
Hence you became a pearl
Immense, enviable and precious:
the treasure which bears, solely,
the entire delight of belonging to the land.
Your name is a sunrise,
shining over the vast front of the skies,
Be hallowed you name!
And we are still rotating nights and days,
in this elusive yet.
---By Ahmad Shamlou
- Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
Translated from the poem "Marthieh" first published in the anthology Marthieh-hay Khak (Elegies of The Earth) 1956, Tehran.
In the quest for you
I sobbed at the knees of the mount,
at the edge of the sea and the turf.
In the quest for you
I moaned with the wind.
Along the eroded face of the routes,
At the crossroad of seasons.
And over a broken window
which made a wooden frame
for the cloudy blues of the skies.
In hope of your image
How long, long, how long,
this frame will remain plain?
Your charm,
was allowing for the passage of the breeze
and of love, and also of death
which confided in you
their perpetual insights.
Hence you became a pearl
Immense, enviable and precious:
the treasure which bears, solely,
the entire delight of belonging to the land.
Your name is a sunrise,
shining over the vast front of the skies,
Be hallowed you name!
And we are still rotating nights and days,
in this elusive yet.
---By Ahmad Shamlou
- Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
Translated from the poem "Marthieh" first published in the anthology Marthieh-hay Khak (Elegies of The Earth) 1956, Tehran.
Reign of Winter
And if you ever greet them
they will not pause one instant
to greet you back.
Heads are hanging sternly lowly.
And if you salute the passing friends
They will not raise their heads
They will not move their gaze
to even glance at your face.
The sight is lost in an opaque, thick haze.
No sign of the stars: They no longer blaze!
The eyes see no more-but one step ahead;
We pass silent and sombre with our tumbling tread.
To a passing man, it is your hand that you lend
Only hesitantly he extends his to you, Alas My Friend!
The air is bitter cold and cruel, the route is a dead-end!
You exhale and your breath turns into a dark blur,
raising insolently a wall in front of your eye.
If this is your own breath then what could you expect
from your friends –of far-away or close-by?
O My Honest Saviour!
O My Old Virtuous Companion!
I hail you with reverence and respect!
Welcome me back!
Open me your door!
It is me, it’s me: Your visitor of all nights!
It is me, it’s me: The sorrowful errant!
It is me: The discarded, The beaten stone!
It is me: The injury to Creation; The song out of tune!
Recall? Not the black, not the white: The colourless buffoon!
Come and open me the door!
I am freezing; open the door before!
they will not pause one instant
to greet you back.
Heads are hanging sternly lowly.
And if you salute the passing friends
They will not raise their heads
They will not move their gaze
to even glance at your face.
The sight is lost in an opaque, thick haze.
No sign of the stars: They no longer blaze!
The eyes see no more-but one step ahead;
We pass silent and sombre with our tumbling tread.
To a passing man, it is your hand that you lend
Only hesitantly he extends his to you, Alas My Friend!
The air is bitter cold and cruel, the route is a dead-end!
You exhale and your breath turns into a dark blur,
raising insolently a wall in front of your eye.
If this is your own breath then what could you expect
from your friends –of far-away or close-by?
O My Honest Saviour!
O My Old Virtuous Companion!
I hail you with reverence and respect!
Welcome me back!
Open me your door!
It is me, it’s me: Your visitor of all nights!
It is me, it’s me: The sorrowful errant!
It is me: The discarded, The beaten stone!
It is me: The injury to Creation; The song out of tune!
Recall? Not the black, not the white: The colourless buffoon!
Come and open me the door!
I am freezing; open the door before!
O Counterpart! O Generous Host!
Your usual guest is trembling in the icy outside!
And if you have ever heard a sound:
It is not raining and in this lane there is not even a soul!
The noise is from the encounter of my teeth
with this overwhelming cold.
Tonight I am here to reimburse you in mass!
I am here to go clear in front of a wine-glass!
Do not say “It’s late; it’s almost the crack of dawn!”
The sky is deceitful with its blushed fawn!
This red is not from the rays of light;
The red is the imprint of this cold’s shameless clout!
The pendant of the bosom of the heavens, Sun,-dead or afoot-
is buried, obscured, beneath the weight of a nine-storey vault!
Your usual guest is trembling in the icy outside!
And if you have ever heard a sound:
It is not raining and in this lane there is not even a soul!
The noise is from the encounter of my teeth
with this overwhelming cold.
Tonight I am here to reimburse you in mass!
I am here to go clear in front of a wine-glass!
Do not say “It’s late; it’s almost the crack of dawn!”
The sky is deceitful with its blushed fawn!
This red is not from the rays of light;
The red is the imprint of this cold’s shameless clout!
The pendant of the bosom of the heavens, Sun,-dead or afoot-
is buried, obscured, beneath the weight of a nine-storey vault!
O Counterpart! O Generous Host!
Pour wine into the glass to light up this bitter exile:
You see? In this winter days and nights are equal.
And if you ever greet them
they will not pause one instant
to greet you back.
The air is heavy, the doors are closed,
Heads hang lowly, and hands are cloaked.
Your breath turns to a dark shadow,
Hearts are fading away under the sway of sorrow.
The trees are naked, like frozen, forsaken bones,
Earth is desolate, Sky is falling down.
Moon and Sun are lost behind Loads of Litter:
It is, indeed,
The Reign of Winter.
---Mehdi Akhavan-Sales
-Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
Pour wine into the glass to light up this bitter exile:
You see? In this winter days and nights are equal.
And if you ever greet them
they will not pause one instant
to greet you back.
The air is heavy, the doors are closed,
Heads hang lowly, and hands are cloaked.
Your breath turns to a dark shadow,
Hearts are fading away under the sway of sorrow.
The trees are naked, like frozen, forsaken bones,
Earth is desolate, Sky is falling down.
Moon and Sun are lost behind Loads of Litter:
It is, indeed,
The Reign of Winter.
---Mehdi Akhavan-Sales
-Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
27 फ़रवरी 2010
Amir Khusro's Ghazal
ज़िहाल-ए मिस्कीं मकुन तगाफ़ुल,
दुराये नैना बनाये बतियां
कि ताब-ए-हिजरां नदारम ऎ जान,
न लेहो काहे लगाये छतियां
शबां-ए-हिजरां दरज़ चूं ज़ुल्फ़
वा रोज़-ए-वस्लत चो उम्र कोताह,
सखि पिया को जो मैं न देखूं
तो कैसे काटूं अंधेरी रतियां
यकायक अज़ दिल, दो चश्म-ए-जादू
ब सद फ़रेबम बाबुर्द तस्कीं,
किसे पडी है जो जा सुनावे
पियारे पी को हमारी बतियां
चो शमा सोज़ान, चो ज़र्रा हैरान
हमेशा गिरयान, बे इश्क आं मेह
न नींद नैना, ना अंग चैना
ना आप आवें, न भेजें पतियां
बहक्क-ए-रोज़े, विसाल-ए-दिलबर
कि दाद मारा, गरीब खुसरौ
सपेट मन के, वराये राखूं
जो जाये पांव, पिया के खटियां
The English translation is:
Do not overlook my misery
Blandishing your eyes, and weaving tales;
My patience has over-brimmed, O sweetheart,
Why do you not take me to your bosom.
The nights of separation are long like tresses,
The day of our union is short like life;
When I do not get to see my beloved friend,
How am I to pass the dark nights?
Suddenly, as if the heart, by two enchanting eyes
Is beset by a thousand deceptions and robbed of tranquility;
But who cares enough to go and report
To my darling my state of affairs?
The lamp is aflame; every atom excited
I roam, always, afire with love;
Neither sleep to my eyes, nor peace for my body,
neither comes himself, nor sends any messages
In honour of the day of union with the beloved
who has lured me so long, O Khusrau;
I shall keep my heart suppressed,
if ever I get a chance to get to his place
- Amir Khusrau.
The phrase "Zeehaal-e-miskeen" comes from a poem of Amir Khusrau. The unique thing about this poem is that it is a macaronic, written in Persian and Brij Bhasha. In the first verse, the first line is in Persian, the second in Brij Bhasha, the third in Persian again, and the fourth in Brij Bhasha. In the remaining verses, the first two lines are in Persian, the last two in Brij Bhasha.
दुराये नैना बनाये बतियां
कि ताब-ए-हिजरां नदारम ऎ जान,
न लेहो काहे लगाये छतियां
शबां-ए-हिजरां दरज़ चूं ज़ुल्फ़
वा रोज़-ए-वस्लत चो उम्र कोताह,
सखि पिया को जो मैं न देखूं
तो कैसे काटूं अंधेरी रतियां
यकायक अज़ दिल, दो चश्म-ए-जादू
ब सद फ़रेबम बाबुर्द तस्कीं,
किसे पडी है जो जा सुनावे
पियारे पी को हमारी बतियां
चो शमा सोज़ान, चो ज़र्रा हैरान
हमेशा गिरयान, बे इश्क आं मेह
न नींद नैना, ना अंग चैना
ना आप आवें, न भेजें पतियां
बहक्क-ए-रोज़े, विसाल-ए-दिलबर
कि दाद मारा, गरीब खुसरौ
सपेट मन के, वराये राखूं
जो जाये पांव, पिया के खटियां
The English translation is:
Do not overlook my misery
Blandishing your eyes, and weaving tales;
My patience has over-brimmed, O sweetheart,
Why do you not take me to your bosom.
The nights of separation are long like tresses,
The day of our union is short like life;
When I do not get to see my beloved friend,
How am I to pass the dark nights?
Suddenly, as if the heart, by two enchanting eyes
Is beset by a thousand deceptions and robbed of tranquility;
But who cares enough to go and report
To my darling my state of affairs?
The lamp is aflame; every atom excited
I roam, always, afire with love;
Neither sleep to my eyes, nor peace for my body,
neither comes himself, nor sends any messages
In honour of the day of union with the beloved
who has lured me so long, O Khusrau;
I shall keep my heart suppressed,
if ever I get a chance to get to his place
- Amir Khusrau.
The phrase "Zeehaal-e-miskeen" comes from a poem of Amir Khusrau. The unique thing about this poem is that it is a macaronic, written in Persian and Brij Bhasha. In the first verse, the first line is in Persian, the second in Brij Bhasha, the third in Persian again, and the fourth in Brij Bhasha. In the remaining verses, the first two lines are in Persian, the last two in Brij Bhasha.
27 नवंबर 2009
Friday
Quiet Friday
deserted Friday
Friday saddening like old alleys
Friday of lazy ailing thoughts
Friday of noisome sinuous stretches
Friday of no anticipation
Friday of submission.
Empty house
lonesome house
house locked against the onslaught of youth
house of darkness and fantasies of the sun
house of loneliness, augury and indecision
house of curtains, books, cupboards, picture.
Ah, how my life flowed silent and serene
like a deep-running stream
through the heart of such silent, deserted Fridays
through the heart of such empty cheerless houses
ah, how my life flowed silent and serene.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Translated by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak. Remembering the Flight: A Parallel Text in English and Persian
deserted Friday
Friday saddening like old alleys
Friday of lazy ailing thoughts
Friday of noisome sinuous stretches
Friday of no anticipation
Friday of submission.
Empty house
lonesome house
house locked against the onslaught of youth
house of darkness and fantasies of the sun
house of loneliness, augury and indecision
house of curtains, books, cupboards, picture.
Ah, how my life flowed silent and serene
like a deep-running stream
through the heart of such silent, deserted Fridays
through the heart of such empty cheerless houses
ah, how my life flowed silent and serene.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Translated by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak. Remembering the Flight: A Parallel Text in English and Persian
The Wind Will Take Us
In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.
listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.
O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Translated by Ahmad Karimi Hakkak
The Persian Book Review VOLUME III, NO 12 Page 1337
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.
listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.
O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Translated by Ahmad Karimi Hakkak
The Persian Book Review VOLUME III, NO 12 Page 1337
Another Birth
My whole being is a dark chant
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.
Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding
a basket passes every day
Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.
Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .
Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon's impression
and the Night's perception.
In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.
Ah
this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.
I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.
I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.
There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.
The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror
And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.
No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.
I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Karim Emami Az Past O Bolande Targomeh Page 19-21
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.
Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding
a basket passes every day
Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.
Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .
Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon's impression
and the Night's perception.
In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.
Ah
this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.
I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.
I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.
There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.
The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror
And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.
No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.
I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.
--- By Forugh Farrokhzad
Karim Emami Az Past O Bolande Targomeh Page 19-21
28 जून 2009
For Iran
If the flames of anger rise any higher in this land
Your name on your tombstone will be covered with dirt.
You have become a babbling loudmouth.
Your insolent ranting, something to joke about.
The lies you have found, you have woven together.
The rope you have crafted, you will find around your neck.
Pride has swollen your head, your faith has grown blind.
The elephant that falls will not rise.
Stop this extravagance, this reckless throwing of my country to the wind.
The grim-faced rising cloud, will grovel at the swamp's feet.
Stop this screaming, mayhem, and blood shed.
Stop doing what makes God's creatures mourn with tears.
My curses will not be upon you, as in their fulfillment.
My enemies' afflictions also cause me pain.
You may wish to have me burned , or decide to stone me.
But in your hand match or stone will lose their power to harm me.
Simin Behbahani, Iran's national poet.
June 2009 Translated by Kaveh Safa and Farzaneh Milani
In this poem, she speaks out against the crackdown of Iranian government on their own people.
Your name on your tombstone will be covered with dirt.
You have become a babbling loudmouth.
Your insolent ranting, something to joke about.
The lies you have found, you have woven together.
The rope you have crafted, you will find around your neck.
Pride has swollen your head, your faith has grown blind.
The elephant that falls will not rise.
Stop this extravagance, this reckless throwing of my country to the wind.
The grim-faced rising cloud, will grovel at the swamp's feet.
Stop this screaming, mayhem, and blood shed.
Stop doing what makes God's creatures mourn with tears.
My curses will not be upon you, as in their fulfillment.
My enemies' afflictions also cause me pain.
You may wish to have me burned , or decide to stone me.
But in your hand match or stone will lose their power to harm me.
Simin Behbahani, Iran's national poet.
June 2009 Translated by Kaveh Safa and Farzaneh Milani
In this poem, she speaks out against the crackdown of Iranian government on their own people.
25 जून 2009
The sun rises
Take heed
My wounded eyes melt
Drop by drop
My rebellion my shadow
Surrenders to the light
Take heed
Everything that I am crumbles
My love’s fire surrenders
Carries me to the end
Crucifies me
Take heed
Stars hail in the night
You came from a far
From fields of scent, of light
To carry me, floating
Through clouds of ivory and crystal
Take me away my solace, my hope
Take me to a city of sonnets and passion
Towards the path of milky way draw me
Higher than every star lift me
Take heed
I’ve been set aflame by this light
Fevered, burnt by this light
Like a goldfish in a pool of night
I gnaw helplessly at the stars
How far-flung is anything
From the earth, from everything
From this crimson ceiling sky
I hear again from a distance
Your voice
The flutter of an angel’s wings
Take heed
How far I’ve come
To the stars
To the endlessness of life
Now that I’ve reached so high above the waves
Immerse me, cleanse me, intoxicate me
Envelope me in a cocoon of kisses
Take me in this night of forever young
Do not let go of my hand
Do not let me fall
Take heed
Our night’s path melts away
Drop by drop
My cup thirsty, empty, black
With you it overflows
With wine with sleep with dreams
Upon this cradle of a poem
Take heed
You utter, and the sun rises.
It is written by famous Iranian Poetess and film director Forough Farrokhzad and translated from persian to english by Ali Sadri.
My wounded eyes melt
Drop by drop
My rebellion my shadow
Surrenders to the light
Take heed
Everything that I am crumbles
My love’s fire surrenders
Carries me to the end
Crucifies me
Take heed
Stars hail in the night
You came from a far
From fields of scent, of light
To carry me, floating
Through clouds of ivory and crystal
Take me away my solace, my hope
Take me to a city of sonnets and passion
Towards the path of milky way draw me
Higher than every star lift me
Take heed
I’ve been set aflame by this light
Fevered, burnt by this light
Like a goldfish in a pool of night
I gnaw helplessly at the stars
How far-flung is anything
From the earth, from everything
From this crimson ceiling sky
I hear again from a distance
Your voice
The flutter of an angel’s wings
Take heed
How far I’ve come
To the stars
To the endlessness of life
Now that I’ve reached so high above the waves
Immerse me, cleanse me, intoxicate me
Envelope me in a cocoon of kisses
Take me in this night of forever young
Do not let go of my hand
Do not let me fall
Take heed
Our night’s path melts away
Drop by drop
My cup thirsty, empty, black
With you it overflows
With wine with sleep with dreams
Upon this cradle of a poem
Take heed
You utter, and the sun rises.
It is written by famous Iranian Poetess and film director Forough Farrokhzad and translated from persian to english by Ali Sadri.
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