Window
A window to see,
A window to hear,
A round window like an unending well:
It should reach to the core of the earth.
And should release into that kind, blue, even air.
A window that loads lonely little hands
by the nocturnal scent of the generous stars.
A window that invites the sun
to the glacial exile of blooms.
A window is enough for me.
I am coming from the land of puppets
And from the shade of painted trees
in the printed gardens of the fiction books.
And from the arid season of thrills of romance,
From deserted lanes of innocence,
From the years of pastel faced letters.
I am coming from behind bench of a tired class.
And from that confusing time
whilst I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board
and terrified birds fled from the cracking branches of the trees.
I arrive from beneath roots of the carnivorous trees,
And my mind is still filled by the fearful calls
of dried butterflies,
under heavy volume of blank, aged books.
When my trust was hung from the frail justice line of the town,
And in the roads, they were cutting the head of my torch,
When they had blind folded 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 song of the 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 insight, sight and peace,
Now that little walnut tree is so grown, grown, so grown,
that it can narrate the tale of wall
to its young leaves.
Ask the name of redeemer from mirrors:
You see,
This trembling ground underneath your feet
is lonelier than you.
The verdict of ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes,
And those infected clouds and incessant blasts perhaps,
flow from those sacred words.
My friend!
Don’t forget,
When you land on the moon,
engrave the date of the carnage of the blooms
on its sad, pale, 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 my young days?
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 this stand is just a virtual room between my hairs
and the hands of this sad, strange guest.
Talk to me,
I donate you all that kindness of streaming life
I expect you nothing but the reflection of its truth.
Talk to me,
You see,
In the shelter of my window,
I am attached to the sun.
By: Forough Farokhzad
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani
http://www.foroughfarrokhzad.org http://www.forughfarrokhzad.org/forughswork.htm
http://www.ezzatgoushegir.com/Writingscontents/Plays/bridepressrelease2006.html http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sholeh_Wolpe http://www.sholehwolpe.com/Poems/ForughFarrokhzad.htm http://sholehwolpe.com/Poems/index.html http://wordswithoutborders.org/article/connection/ http://www.forughfarrokhzad.org/selectedworks/selectedworks_french1.asp A Flash motion picture by Kianoosh Ramezani (of Zahir-od-Dowleh cemetery in Tehran)