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.
Forough Farrokhzad (1935 – 1967)
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
