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)