Σάββατο, 22 Δεκεμβρίου 2012

Forough Farrokhzad ( فروغ فرخزاد)--The Cold Season

The Cold Season

Let’s believe in the beginning of the cold season.
It is me,
a lonely woman
at the doors of a cold season,
and discovery of soiled soul of the earth,
sad despair of the sky,
and inability of my frozen hands.

Time passed,
Time passed and clock struk four times.
Today is 21st of December
I know secrets of seasons
And I understand words of instants.
The redeemer is buried,
and the soil, this welcoming soil
is pointing to the salvation.

Time passed,
and clock struk four times.

Wind is blowing outside,
Wind is blowing outside,
And I am thinking about flowers mating;
and about thoeir blossoms on frail, pale stems,
and about this ailing, drained instance.

A man is passing by the soaked trees,
And his blue veins' strings,
raise over his gorge,
like lifeless snakes.
And those stabbed words
are circulating in his ravaged mind:
“I greet you.”
And I am just thinking about flowers mating...

At the doors of a cold season,
in the mourning of mirrors,
with the entirety of my fading remembrance,
And in this loaded dusk by the consciousness of silence,
how could I ask him to stop?
Ask this man who goes
So patient,
So heavy,
So thrown,
How could I tell him that he is not alive,
that he was never alive.

Wind is blowing outside
And all lonely crows of isolation
are flowing in the aged garden of bore
Oh, the ladder has such a short height.

They took the whole innocence of a heart,
to the castle of captive mermaid
and now,
and now how someone would dance?
And would pour her childhood locks in happy waters?

And now,
Nobody will walk on the forbidden fruit.

My beloved, my sole beloved,
All those dark clouds are sentinels for the gathering of shines.

It seems that it was along the vision of flight
that one day the bird emerged.
It seems that those breathless leaves in desire of breeze,
were made from green lines of dream.
It seems that those purpled flames
blazing in the chaste mind of glass
were just an illusion of light.

Wind is blowing outside,
It is the beginning of ruin.
Do you remember?
The day your hands perished
It was also windy in the yard.

Dear stars,
Dear bare stars,
When lie is flying in the air,
How can you rely
on words of preyed-on prophets?
"We will resurge like millenary mummies
and sun will judge over decadence of our bodies."

I am cold,
I am cold,
and it is like I will never warm up.
My beloved, my sole beloved,
How old was that wine?
Do you know?

We are in the land of sinking time,
and sharks are biting into my arms.
Why do you still keep me,
underneath the sea?

I am cold.
And I hate pearl earrings.
I am cold,
and I know that from all illusions of a tulip,
just few drops of blood will last.

I will abandon lines,
I will also abandon charts,
And from bounded geometrical shapes,
I will shelter in the expanding vastness of sense.
I am nude, nude, nude.
I am bare like a silent pause between tender words,
And all of my wounds are from love,
love, from love.

I saved this forsaken islet
from revolution of oceans
and explosion of mountains.

Do you know?
Burst was the talisman of that integrated corpse
whose pieces gave birth to countless shines.

I greet you, innocent darkness
I greet you, night.
You altered eyes of desert’s wolves
to tears of faith and trust.
And near-by your lakes
spirits of old trees
are making love to souls of blades.

I am coming from the land of frozen minds, words, sounds
And this land is like a hole of snakes.
This land is full of friends
who hold your hands
and hang you in their heads.

I greet you innocent night,
You know, between glass and sight
there is always an empty room.

Why didn’t I notice?
Like when the man was passing by soaked trees…

Why didn’t I notice?

It seemed that my mother had cried that night,
the night I came upon the pain
and the sticky depth of the dawn.

That night, I became the bride of Acacias.
That night the town
was crammed with echo of colorful windows,
and my match had arrived inside my wits.

I was seeing him in the mirror,
And he was as pure as the reflection of lights.
Then suddenly he called my name
and I became the bride of Acacias.
It seemed like my mother had cried that night.

Oh, a futile brightness exploded in the hole...
Why didn’t I notice?
All instants of delight knew
that your hands would decay,
But I didn’t notice
until that clock struk four times.

Then I met that little woman,
Her eyes were like deserted nests of owls
And she was taken away in blinking of her legs.
It seemed that she was carrying the virginity of my dreams
to the core of night.

Will I flow my hair again,
in crude winds?
Will I grow again
bushes of roses, in the courtyard?
Will I place them again behind the blind?
Will I dance again mad, drunk, all around?
Can the buzzer again
take me to the expectation of the sound?

I told my mom: “it is over now”.
I told her: “it always happens when you don’t expect,
We should send a condolence letter to the paper.”

The empty man,
The empty, full of confidence man,
His teeth are reciting at the lunch
and his eyes are devouring the sights,
and how he is passing by soaked trees:

At four o’clock,
dead snakes of his bloated veins
raise over his gorge,
and this ever-repeating phrase
possesses his mind:
“I greet you,
I greet you.”

Did you ever smell those four marine tulips?

Time passed,
Time passed and night fell on the naked branches of the trees,
Night is sliding over the windows’ glass,
And its cold tongue is licking the entirety of day’s remains.

Where do I come from?
Where do I come from that I am so damped,
by smell of the shade.
And it is still fresh, the tomb
The tomb of those young hands…

How kind you were, my beloved,
My sole beloved.
How gentle it was when you lied.
And you masked mirrors’ eyes
so tenderly.
And you were so caring,
when you picked all lights
from tall, thin, dark poles.

In those wicked nights
you were taking me to the abattoir of love,
until fainting of confused steam of blazed thirst.

And those bare stars
were turning around obscure infinity.
They, alas, called noise, voice.
And they stared at the blinding light for so long.
And why did they lodge the caress in curls of the mythical chaste?

The person who talked with words of her soul,
and stabbed with eyes
and hit with stroke of tender hands
is crucified on the cross of suspicion and doubt.
And your five fingers sketched five letters of truth
on her face.

What is silence, silence, silence,
my sole beloved?
Isn’t it just the chant of buried words?
I am mute but sparrows’ words
are about blunt celebration of the world.
Their song is about leaf, flower and flow.
It is about breeze, perfume and birth
Sparrows’ words would die in the deal.

Who is he?
He is crossing those void, sacred roads
towards the instance of unison.
He is setting his sorry routine clock
on the indifference of calculations.
Who is he?
His days’ heart never heard
the early calls of young, golden eagles.
Who is she?
She owns the long, gorgeous veil of love
And she has rotten in her bridal gown.

The sun, alas, failed to penetrate
into both of those two lone souls
and that soaring, blue air was drained out of you.
But I am so full, full, so full
that they are praying on the density of my tone.

Happy remains,
Drawn remains,
Wise, silent remains,
you look like handsome, tasteful ghosts,
you appear in stations of regular times,
you emerge in the suspicious spot of passing stars
and the bore show of futile, stale fruits.

Oh, those people...
They are speculating disasters
around the worried concern of crossroads.
And just when a man should crash under the wheels of time,
a man should indeed crash
they whistle, whistle, whistle to stop
the man who is passing by soaked trees…

Where do I come from?

I told my mom: “it is over now.”
I told her: “It always happens when you don’t expect,
We should send a condolence letter to the paper”

I salute you isolation of solitude,
I donate you the whole room,
I know, those obscure clouds
indicate the closeness of clear skies.

Only the last blast of flame knows
the bright secret of a candle’s life.

Let’s believe,
let’s believe in the beginning of the cold season,
let’s believe in the ruin of garden of dreams
in unloaded, abandoned spades,
and in caged seeds.
Snow is falling outside…

Perhaps truth was those young hands,
They are now buried under the unending blow of snow.
But when spring makes love
to the blue reflection of sky
and green stream of fresh grass
flows in its veins
they will flourish, my beloved,
my sole beloved.
Let’s believe in the beginning of the cold season.

By: Forough Farokhzad
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani