The GapThe incident of birth: over a rusty spearas-if an open wound, turning to a bleeding tear.

The journey, one and only one journey: ran throughall the wayin unbroken chains.

Fuelling the flare inside, until the last blast of mightin glory, the glory bestowedby the mere dustof the path.

Slaves, truebut so!

Ascending the ladder of thorns-

wherein the blood runslike bushes of rose. And then, beamingunder the stroke of whip, unremitting, always, till the cruel courseends.

Oh, whose account I recount? Who? We liveclueless in the dark; They diewell aware of why.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2011, Halifax This poem (Shekaaf) was first published in the anthology Dagger in the Platter (Deshneh dar Dis),1977, Tehran.

Nocturnal (1955)By Ahmad Shamlou

Can I ever write, a poem, to both recitethe song of my heart, and to recountthe epic of my might? I doubt... Can I ever compose such verse, in this solid dark, in this dominant night? I doubt... For I happen to bea heap of cold, discarded ashconcealing the seeds of all revoltsinside. And, I happen to be A peaceful seacarrying the roars of all stormsunderneath its quiet sight. And, I am a frozen lakehiding the flames of all faithsbeneath its lifeless face. Can I ever writesuch poem? Can I ever compose such verse?

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 19th, 2011, Halifax.This poem (Shabaaneh) is first published in the anthology The Fresh Air (Hava-ye Tazeh), Tehran, 1955.

Death of NazeliVartan Salakhanian

Spring smiledand redbud flourished. In the backyard, the aged lilac drownedin thousands of blossoms, chanting:

Have Faith, Faith! Break away from the cursed hands of Death! Being, opt for Being! And refuge notin the naught! Surely notin this green spring!

**&**

Nazeli, proud, departed in silence, quenching her flaming ragewith the shower of her sorrow.

Nazeli, Speak! Speak a word!

Or the Bird of Silence will hatchthe egg of an invincible demise!

**&** Nazeli spoke not. And Sun rosefrom the bed of darknessto the bath of blood, and then, vanished again.

Nazeli spoke not a word. Nazeli was a Falling Star, Shining at oncetraversing the night, and fading away.

Nazeli spoke not a word: Nazeli was a Transient Violet, Flowering at once, heralding the warmth: The Reign of Winter is Over! then, fleeing awayfrom the sight.

Nazeli is gone.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2010, New Brunswick, Canada.

This poem was first published in the anthology Fresh Air (Hava-ye Tazeh)Tehran, 1957. About this peom see: http://www.parand.se/ra-vartan.htm

I Love YouWith his wife Ayda Sarkisyan

In our neighbourhood, it is not darknot night. In our neighbourhood, voices are not making peacewith the raid of silence: Words are sentinel. I am not alone with you. No one, on his own, is ever all alone. And this night is lonelierthan its far-apart stars. **&** In our neighbourhood, it is not darknot night.

And, torches are laid restlessnext to the burning lanterns. All the fury of this lane, hides in your clenched fist. Your lips, are scraping this verseto its furbished glow. I hear you say: I love you. **&** I Love You. And, this nightis afraid of darkness. By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2011, Halifax. This poem (To Raa Doust Daaram) is first published in the anthology The Fresh Air (Hava-ye Tazeh), Tehran, 1955.

Frozen FireBy Ahmad ShamlouAt the time, the flames of wrongburned the flower of your lips, my frozen eyes, tied to the locked gate, turned to the blocked doorwayof the azure hallwayof pain.

Alas! They should have let us! They should have let us throwthe silken ashes of our tearsover the four cornersof this earth. Alas! They should have let us! They should have let us plantthe growing seeds of our loveon the tips of swiftersweeter fingers. Alas! They should have let us... They should have let me quenchthe burning flames of your lipswith the glacial sorrowof my soul. They should have let you litmy chilly darkness insidewith the blazeof your eyes... **&** Alas! The Flames of Wrongconsumed the flower of your lips; And my frozen eyes, remained the blocked doorway of Hallway of Pain. Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani August 2011, Halifax.This poem (Harigh-e Sard) is first published in the anthology The Fresh Air

(Hava-ye Tazeh), Tehran, 1955.

Chant No. 5 (1)With his wife Ayda Sarkisyan

(1) The fifth chant, is indeed, the song ofa more profound amity. The fifth song, is the long recitalof the beats of my griefand the stream of her relief. Framing, yet, another phrase of praise, and vow of faithfulnessto this gentle embracedanced in the stroke of her handsand the vibration of the cords of my soul;

To this memorablechord of love.These hands, are delicate and warm, and calm like an infant in a deep sleep. And me watching, watching so closelyI read her unique talefrom her fingerprints. And this firm mouth, is inviting the silence to listeningto far deeper than the substance of words.

And those eyes, are fashioned to be gazed at, more than for gazing at this world. And those hands, made for giving, justor also, just to be held. The fifth song, indeed, is yet another phrase of praise- and vow of gratitudefor this splendid soul that challengedthe wretched into battling the wreck. And for those eyes, that in this cemetery of gods, ceaselessly preachthe faith in beauty. And for the fountain of hope, of purityand of devotion, she personified; My Woman. This song, in this abattoir of justice, is for the woman who alights, with her blood and skinthe cold prisonof the convictthat I am. Preview of Part (2) Her quest was a crusade, that I would never yield...

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal. Translated from the poem "Soroud-e Panjom" first published in the anthology "Ayda dar Ayeneh" (Ayda in the Mirror) 1964, Tehran. It seems that the poet has intended this long poem to stand as Beethovens Symphony No. 5 within his work.

Chant No. 5. Parts (2) & (3)With his wife Ayda Sarkisyan

(2) Her quest, was a crusadethat I would never renounce. I, the convictafter the rope of the alter untied, descended on Earth, from the heights; but as-if wrapped in a divine pardon. And since then, all prospects of releaseseemed buried under the dustsof this earth. And since, I could not-

but remaining spitefully innocent, for the sake of a vengeance. **&** Her quest, was a crusadethat I could never renounce; not as a first love, not as a last hope, and neither in laughter, nor in tears. Only, as soon as we first spoke, we found all the worthy words earlier said. And we discovered that between us, there is nothing left to state.

(3) Then, I bade farewellto the land and to the abode, for she was- neither here nor there. I bade farewellto the heavens and to the moon, for she was neither in the aura of air-

nor in the air of stars. She did not belongto men, the parched logs of Fire of Torment, not to the angels, frozen figuresin permanent worship of gods. And now, I exclaim to myself, with joy and delight:

Oh, In all my verses, already composed or not, now I know without doubtshe stands still- and if my lines shine, it is from the sole light of her eyes.She is the irrefutable proofof my absolute absence of need. And indeed, I discovered it outrightfrom the very first sight.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal.

Translated from the poem "Soroud-e Panjom" first published in the anthology "Ayda dar Ayeneh" (Ayda in the Mirror) 1964, Tehran. It seems

that the poet has intended this long poem to stand as Beethovens Symphony No. 5 within his work.

Chant No. 5Beloved, Let us depart! My Sole Beloved, Let us depart! And, Hold my cold hands: I shall never speak outin empathy with their plightbut of the pain and plightthey, insistently, brought. For, Compassioncalls for Comprehensionand Complicity: To comply with the ruleof this corrupt, coward, crowd; calling so resolutelyfor the infection of all the surrounds. Comforting them, with compassion, But how? How? Compassioncalls for Comprehension, and Complicity.

And it is soSolely sothat they hold this sanguine grudgeagainst you and your kind: against whoever stands fearlessly against pain, and darkness, and demise. **&** Beloved, Let us depart! Let us departMy Sole Beloved! Though, Alas, alas! with them, even the departure, is a sour curse: The farther awaywe stand, the betterwe understand, the truththe depththe vastnessof their filth! By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2011, Halifax.Translated from the poem "Soroud-e Panjom" first published in the anthology "Ayda dar Ayeneh" (Ayda in the Mirror) 1964, Tehran. It seems that the poet has intended this long poem to stand asBeethovens Symphony No. 5 within his work.

Chant No. 5 (11)

In the picture: Wife Ayda Sarkisyan

(11) And now, I journey to the air of another sky, to that last sky at the edge of heavenswhose only staris You. A clear sky, The crystal cover of a gardenwhose only plantonly butterflyis You, The Garden, with just one tree, and this tree, with only one flower, You. Oh, You! My only garden, My sky, My only flower, tree and butterfly! Taken in the bliss of your songs, your heavenly lullaby, now, I slowly fall asleepand I journey to another land,

to a land whereYou are The Only Dream.By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal.

Translated from the poem "Soroud-e Panjom" first published in the anthology "Ayda dar Ayeneh" (Ayda in the Mirror) 1964, Tehran. It seems that the poet has intended this long poem to stand as Beethovens Symphony No. 5 within his work.

The Fateful HourBy Ahmad Shamlou

A key, pierced deep insidethe lengthily lockedgate.

Trembled on his feeble lipsa faint, fading smile: a fleeting mirage. Like the still water dancingover the slippery floor of a lake: just an image.

A key, pierced deep insidethe lengthily lockedgate.

**&**

Outside, The fine flavour of Dawn, rambling around, in hope of a crackto settle inthe darkness within; Like an outcast, forsaken noteat the mercy of the flutes tears.

**&**

The rusted key, pierced deep insidethe lengthily lockedGate.

Trembled on his feeble lipsa fading smile: A Fleeting Mirage. Like the still water dancingon the slippery floor of a lake: Just An Image.

By Ahmad Shmlou

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2011, Halifax

This poem (Saa'at-e Edaam) was first published in the anthology Dagger in the Platter (Deshneh dar Dis),1977, Tehran.

Of The Frost InsideTremor in my hands, the heart tumbling down, in doubt: If Love is not to be the flight, then can it be the shelter? If Love is not to be the flightThen can it be the escape? Alas! The visage of Love, The blue visage of Love, is invisible in this night. Tremor in my hands, The heart tumbling down in doubt: If Love is not to ignite the lightin the bitter, obscure inside, then, can it be a quenching reliefto a burning sore? Alas! The visage of Love, The ruby visage of Love, is invisible in this night. **&** To settle the thick cloud of dustsafter the raid of doubts;

To contrive a concealing, but wide-open spaceto set on the loose, the trail of thoughts; To be the only painted spot, on the pale surface of calm, Or an evergreen leafto adorn the lilacs...

But, Alas! The face of Love, The familiar face of Loveis long, so long, lostin this endless night.By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2009, New Brunswick

This poem (Bar Sarma-ye Daroun) was first published in the anthology Abraham in Fire (1973, Tehran).

ObituaryThe mundane and the obliviousare all alikeand attuned. Only, the restless womb-

of the stormgives birth to assorted, at oddsoffspring.

Attuned and docile, shadows,standing stillbeyond the shield of Sun: walking undead, soulless, in disguise of life.

And, Others: Sailors of tormented seas, Sentinels of holy flames, They serenely stride, with Death by their side, never- falling behind.

Alive, animate, sentient,forever, evermore,

incessant,Alive!

For they once lived; For they once walked, Hand in hand with Death.

Hence, corruption and ruinhide away, mortified, at the adventof their sight.

The finders of the Spring, The noble founders of Garden of Hemlock, The explorers of the roots of blissin the burning grail of mounts-

And, the magicians of smile, despite the loads of pain, concealed in their hat.

Here, they lived. And then, they departed, carving a concrete footprintall along the heavenly trailof the birds.

**&**

They stand up against the Thunder. They light up the House. And They Die.

Ahmad Shamlou, Spring 1975.First Published in The Dagger in the Platter (Tehran, 1977).

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, Spring 2011, Halifax.

I wish I was water...I wish I was water, If one could bewhat one desires.

Being human, Alas!

is a mission at the limits of impossible! Dont you see?

**&**

I wish I was waterI think to myself:

Watching over a frail plant, as it grows into a mature tree(and this, even if it is meant to stand the strokes of the cold lames of an axe landing, broken, on this Earth...)

Looking after a minute pine, as it rises up and green(and this, even if it is meant to turn into a blood-stained, futile cross...)

Or satiating the thirst of a lone pilgrimAnd being content with the slight reward of this comfort, (and this, even if he is kneeling down -waiting- his verdict of demise...).

Doesnt it come as a surprise -to youthat one becomes Cain to his brothers? And the tormenter of Others? And sets the trees on firein his native land?

I know, know, I know... I know it all and yet, I wish I was water, If I could ever bewhat I desire.

Oh, I wish, I was water plain, fluid, clear, And oblivious! -Oblivious like a drop of rain, descending down the hills-.

And no longer lost,

And aimless, in this endless Ocean of Wrong.

I wish I was Water, Not this Wandering Wave!

September 1989, Tehran By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani

This poem is from anthology Praises with no reward (Madayeh-e Bi Selleh), first published in Tehran, 1992.

Nocturnal -1962With wife Ayda SarkisyanIn the midst of this restless sea-

of glow and sparkYour Beautyis an anchor; And, a Sunthat wipes forever awaymy need for the dawn of stars.

Your Gazeis the defeat of spite; And, A veil, wrapping my naked soulin the robe of love. **&** With you, I became such that it seemsthe endless, darkened nightshave not been but an untrue image, just a mirage. And now, looking into your eyes, I hear you say:

Tomorrow is another day!Your eyesare the clayfrom which Love is born. And your love, is my only armin fronting my fate. **&**

I have long believed Sun, from remote, unreachable spheres, is inviting me- to an untimely farewell. I have believed so, for long, so long. You, your advent, was the definite removalof this thought of exile. **&** In the midst of this restless sea, Your Beautyis The Anchor; And, A Massive Sun. Your Gazeis The Defeat of Spite. And, looking into your eyes, I hear you say:

Tomorrow is another day!

By Ahmad Shmalou (September 1962).

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2010, Halifax.

Traslated from the poem "Shabaneh" first published in the anthology Ayda dar Ayneh (Ayda in the Mirror) 1963, Tehran.

Of This LongingGaze at this world! All in all, lying over the entrancing sheetsof its long-lasting, corrupting, deep sleep, alien, so alien, to itself!

And gaze at us! Awakened, slumberless, alert, conscious, so conscious, of our plight! Furious and quarrelsome, We stand guard for our torment.

The angry wardens of our own pain, we keep watching eyes, so that our distress, this endless agony,

does not defaulton its assigned duty.

And gaze at this world! All in all, lying in its innocent sleep, alien, so alien, to itself. **&**

Moon, is traversing the darkened sky along its cold, nightly course.

We, all in all, are stillstanding there.

And, it seems, Day is notyet to come.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2010, New Brunswick

The poem is from The Songs of Lonely Lane (Tarane-haye Kouche-ye Ghorbat), Tehran, 1980.

The Hymn of Abraham in FireThe flood of dawn, wounded and bleeding, runs to the greeting of a Man beyond the ground of the ordinary.

A man who wanted the land green.

A man who deemed Lovethe ornament of beauty, and solely so, for in his eyesdust and sands undeserved this prized giftthat is Love.

What a man!

What a man!

A man who believed: The truth of a heart only blazes morein the encounter of blades.

A man who believed: The fate of a voice, the song of flesh, is to stutter the finest of names, The Name.

A man, sublime like a lion on the top of a cliff; Such loyal to Love!

And the wheel of fortune sketched his storyin the likeness of Achilles.

What a man! A knight in his bright armour!

And, the mystery of his end flows constantlyin the sorrows of Love and in the torments of solitude.

**&**

O Sad Spandyat*, May you forever remain with veiled eyes!

**&**

And whowas ever as dignifiedas to draw the lines of My Destiny? Which One?

I, I alone, screamed: No!

I, I alone, abstainedfrom the Fall.

I was a voice and a faceamongst the collection of depictions-

But then,

I was animated in the dimensions of sense.

I was, But then I became; Not alike a bud thriving into a rose; and not like roots into stems; and not like seeds into forest; But like a man, just a mansurging into The Martyr: The martyr that celestial hearts praisewith love and faith.

As I never belongedwith the wretched and the meek, to the crowd of slaves.

And it never wasthat Paradisecould enough prizemy battles, faith and love: Only another Divine could ever be mine!

A divine,

warranting a creaturethat stands against the fatevaliant and free.

And indeed, I laboured the birthof this Other Divine.

**&** Alas! Alas, for the brave heartand the lion that you were, a mountain, a rock.

You, before streaming on this grasshad already diedfar beyondthe cross of intergrityand dignity.

And no! Neither God, nor Devil could ever decide your fate.

Never could they setyour fateas a fetishthat the others worship.

You would not bebut only as The Onethat his other oneseternally love and forever cherish!

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2010, New Brunswick

This poem was first published in the anthology Abraham in Fire (1973, Tehran).

* For Spandyat see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Esfandiy%C4%81r

The Sixth SongStrange- but only true:

We existed not.

And our Loveconceived usinside ourselves.

So Familiar now we are: Like smiles with jaws, Like tears with eyes.

Our original incidentis now in the past.

**&** All screamnow we are; And The Word no moreAnd the Secret Chord no more.

**&** In the town, one thousand templesare contrived...

Let them be only One-

throughout the agesand through the spheres. And I will pray therewhere You are.

The Sacred Tree of Life, or a Blessing Cross, I am not; But only a young plantwith wide open armsto gather you infor a moment of restwhenever You wish.

**&**

Undying memories now we are: Two birdsSouvenirs of Our Flight. And One LyreKeepsake of Our Songof Love.

By Ahmad Shamlou

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani. July 2010, Halifax

This poem was first published in the anthology At The Edge (Dar Astaneh), Tehran, 1997.

In An InstantIn a slight stroke of your hands, it is the whole world that I comprehend. In the mere thought of you, it is the entirety of eternity that I attend: flowing, nude, content.

**&**

I stream, I shine, I rain. I am the heavens; I am all the stars; I am this Earth. I am also that golden thicket of wheat, expecting the clusters of scented seed, in the green lake of its joyous dance.

**&**

I traverse you, like a lightening crossing the night. I blaze. And I then melt.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2010, Halifax.

This poem was first published in the anthology Little Songs of Exile, Tehran, 1980.

Nocturnal-335No Gate, No Route, No Night No Moon! **&** No trace of Day! And no imprint of Sun! Were standing outside Time, with a bitter dagger piercing profoundly within

from behind! **&** No one speaks: Nothing to say, Nothing to teach! Silence is -truly-the best speech! **&** We observe-solemnly- our Dead, with the sketch of a sober smile on our face. And we expect our turn-soundless without the slightest shred of a beam!

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani The was first published in the anothology Abraham in Fire 1973, Tehran.

Closing GameThe Lovers, passed by, heads hanging lowly, ashamed of their untimely songs. And since then, the lanes remained void and silent. The Soldiers, passed by, broken and drown,

riding their ghostly horses, andwith the fading stains of their hubris all over their blades. **&** To Heavens and Earth, You boast! But where will you end? All the bits of these dusty routesthe ones that you have ever crossedwill be, forever, cursing you! To Meadow and Forest, You boast! But where will you end? You spoke to the daffodilsthe ones that witnessed your marchwith the cold lames of a sickle! You must know: wherever you gothe plants cease to grow. For you could never believe, ever, the nobility, the worth, of Water and Earth, of Fire and Air. **&** Alas! Our destiny is sketched, By the chant, by the march these lost soulswho are your soldiers: Mercenariesreturning from the haunted bastionof wrong, of Whore of Babylon. Behold!

Beware! Beware what this hellish cursewill make of you! For grieving mothers, mournful of the most beautiful children of Sun and Windare still praying to Heavens with wide open armsstretched towards the skies! By Ahmad Shamlou, London, 1979 Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2009, Montral This poem was first published in the anthology Little Songs of Exile, Tehran, 1980.

The Brightest HorizonFor Kamyar Shapour (Forough's son)Forough Farrokhzad and her son One day, we will find our lost doves again. And then, Beauty will hold the hands of kindnessonce more. **&** That day, the least of the enchanting songs, flowing in the airwill be the sound of the stroke of a kiss! And men, won't bebut brothersto other men.

**&** That day, Locks, fences and blocked gateswont be but the obsolete remnants of the past. And Heart, the purity of hearts, will again rule, will again standas the spring of life, survivaland the only means to last. In that day, all words will speak of nothingbut of Love. So, you and I, will no longer searchfor the right words, phrases, termsto bring your talks to a term. **&** In that day, all words will be versed in a sole air: The Air of Life! So that I will no longer huntfor the rhythm, for the beat, for the rhyme. **&** In that day, every mouth will opento sing a song. And the least of the songs, will be the soundof the stroke of a kiss! **&**

It will be the dayof Your Advent! The day you will arriveAnd Beauty will walk with Kindness at last. And that day, we find our lost doves again. **&** Now, I am longing. I am longing now, awaiting the Day. Even though, I know: On the awaited day On that day, I maybe no longer here. Yes, no longer here...

Note: The poet Forough Farrokhzad died in 1967, at the age of 32, in a car accident. By Ahmad Shamlou, from the anthology The Fresh Air, first published in Tehran, 1955. Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2009, Montreal.

You and I

With his wife Ayda Sarkisian

You and I, You and I, we are a sole mouth, that with the most subtle sound of its chordssings a majestic song.

**&** You and I, You and I, we are a sole pair of eyes,that with the weight of its most fleeting gaze,

restores this world- in its original facet.

**&** Such a disgust! Such a disgustfor all that courts Time, for all that courts Boundary and Border, for all that restrains, keeps and rules! Such a disgust for all that stands, so insolently, between you and I!

Such a disgust I feel!

**&** You and I, You and I, we conspire to a flightbeyond this heap of dust and ashfar above the reach of any other flameand even the untouched splendourof the remotest stars.

That is how You and I, could stand invincible, against the lord of demise.

**&**

And now, The Nightingalethat sojourns in our abodeswiftly flies in. The Nightingale fills the voidwith the fluid flavour of our long lost god.

Our Nightingale brings in the fragrance of a departed divine,

just for You and I.

By Ahmad Shamlou (1962)Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2009, Montreal.

This poem has been First published in the anthology Ayda in the Mirror (Tehran, 1963).

Children of the DepthsThey thrive, In the town of no street, In the stale web of dead-end lanes, In the bosom of smoke, drug and pain, Talismans in thir pocket and stones in hands. The children of the depths! The children of the depths! They thrive.

**&** The cruel swamp of fate in front, The lash of thrown fathers on their back, Ears filled with their shattered mothers curse, In a void of hope, their future crushed in their clinched fists,

The children of the depths, The children of the depths, They thrive.

**&**

They flourish, In the forest of no spring, On the trees of no yield, In the fields of no harvest, The children of the depths! The children of the depths!

They chant with a bleeding throat, They carry an unbending flag in their hands, They bear the banner of pain on their shoulders, The children of the depths! The Kaveh* of the depths, They thrive.

*For Kaveh Click!

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal.

From The Songs of Lanes of Exile (Tarane-haye Kouche-ye Ghorbat), Tehran, 1980.

ResurrectionI had lodged all the dead inside: The remains of lifeless, soundless birds, The remains of the most beautiful beasts, terrestrial or celestial, airborne or from the seas; And the corpses of all menrighteousor evil.

I was there, in such land, in the past, without any anthem, motto or chant.

My inside devoid of all arcanes,all mysteries; No smile and also-

no regret.

But You, such lovinglyand so untimelydreamed of me.

And then, I was awakened by your side.

By Ahmad Shamlou. Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2010, Halifax.

First published in the anthology Songs of Lonely Lane (Tarane-haye Kouche-ye Ghorbat), Tehran, 1980.

Such Longing!I yearn for you, Oh, so, so eagerly!

I yearn for you! For your absence-

feels like a lengthy trial, or perhaps, a sentenceof being buried alive!

**&**

Oh, How restless I stand this longing, Like a Page on the saddle of Pegasus, called upon to a final onslaughtby his commanding Knight!

And I yearn for you, And in this longing I grasp, at lastthe void space between you and I, in every futile flight of my mind. And, in the flights of my mind, the perfume of your robe is nearby, right here and right now. Yet it sprays the entire spacewith the cold scent of your absence. *** The mountains,

are the frozen imageof the load of this absence.

And my hands, lost in the spiral of country-lanes, and in the riot of undone morning beds, everyday search, desperately search, for the warm shield of your arms. At the end, my eyes, closed all the windowsover the long routes in frontin an invincible grief. *** You voice!

In short of your voice, And in short of the songs of your slender fingers, The Whole Wide World Greets Me Not.By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal. From the book Dagger in the Platter, Tehran , 1977.

The Nuptials(1) An infinite stillnessin front of my mystified eyes, the spinning, falling petals of rosefrom their shaking, frail ladder of thornseemed to me- a flock of butterflies in flight. Time, hastily stirred the dusts of path, and then went lost, without a trace. It went lost in the abundant emptiness of the abyss. Abruptly, a miracle sparkled in The Gardenigniting the dried veins of the whispering trees:

The spring is finally descending to us.Then suddenly, the long-lasting thirst of the leavesdrowned itself in an absolutely green, rushing waterfall. Sparrows flew in- to fill the dark voidbetween the leaves and the treeswith the fragrance of their dance. (2) Now, those generous eyes, that the lantern of their tearsdid never deny any man- warmth and light, yearn to finally smile. Now,

It is me, me, carrying the weight of years of exileon my shoulders to the top of Calvary. Now, It is me, me, pulling out the rusty nailswith the fury of my bare teeth, yet, holding wide open arms. Now, It is me, me, standing next to the undone cross, but high- higher, but stretched- more stretched, lifted, lifted like a banner of triumph. (3) In the land of undying grief, the fall, the descent of a miracleis strange but now a Truth. Now, it is me, me, It is me screaming:

O Pilgrim! Explain me, if you please! Why, why is that nothing is leftbetween me and these souls that in fact, I truly loved?Do not blame them! Let Go!

Let go, just!Such I was responded and such I did. **&** And then, the soiled river became clear.

And then, the polished grains of sandstood up dancing to the song of the breeze. And, for me, me, the clinched fists of wrathand my never decaying paingave in to the aura of this sight. **&** At last, My blistered feet, landed on the moist texture of the moss. And, My scourged heartdid not keep any scarfrom the heated iron club. (4) No! I could never believe the darkness could last. For the hope of a lightly window, at the end of such tight passwayalways shined in my heart. (5) An unknown splendour, is now climbing higher and higherin the furnace of my soul. As-if, I constantly drinkfrom the holiest grailthe pure air of the heavens.

In the void roomsbetween the stars, I now dance, sing, dance. Now, It is me, myself! Now, it is I, Myself!

It is I, Myself, asking you: Behold me the crowd! Behold the Man! Ecce Homo!*By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal. Translated from the poem "Vasl" first published in the anthology Lahzeh-ha va Hamisheh (Eternity and Moments) 1964, Tehran.

* No Latin expression was in the original poem, but ''Behold The Man!''. Ecce Homo:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecce_Homo **&**

The music is Pavane by Faur:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavane_(Faur%C3%A9)

The HeraldBefore you,

numerous sculptures and paintershave contrived gazellesfrom the blend of leavesand leafless trees. Before you, many artists have doodledthe herd of sheep, in the bosom of a hillin search of a shepherd. Or in a misty, green meadow, before you, others have sketcheda grazing mare. *** But you, You assemble the lines of likeness; The lines of likeness between sigh and tear, between iron, timber and cement, between smoke, ash and fire, and between pain and deceit. *** You know? Silence, for us, is no longer a virtue. Well, you do know. *** Silence of wateris either the warning of droughtor the outcry of thirst. Silence of wheatis either the hunger of lawnor the sobbing of Earth. And the silence of Sunis the lame victory of darkness. But,

Do you know? The silence of Manis the defeat of life and the demise of soul! And, you do know. *** Sketch the Scream! Sketch this Scream! Our era, is confined in a closed circleof scourge and scorn. My fellow men, forsaken by the divine, estranged from hope, set our honour shamelessly on sale! And, you do know. *** We, We possessedall the mighty words of this worldand we did not speak. We did not speak a word, the long awaited word! For we were not deniedbut one word, One Word: Freedom! *** We did not speak. We did not speak of the word. But you drew. You do draw! By Ahmad Shamlou, From Abraham in fire, Tehran, 1973 Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, December 2008, Montreal.

Nocturnal-1973In the picture, wife Ayda Sarkisian

To me, You arethe mere negationof any need for reason. In truth, Tell me! Which epic verse, are you the golden prizemy only Ode to Love? Tell me! Which earnest greeting to Sun, from this obscure prison, are you the stardust responsemy only Ode to Love? The Word is born from your gaze. And holy are your immaculate eyes. *** Behind the dancing blaze of your gaze, which prisoners longing sigh- from swollen, split lipsis heaving, donating a bright red roseto the instance of Freedom? Though indeed, the dancing stars of your eyesdo not owe any piece of gold or of silverto any sun, to any sky. *** Truth, forever veiled from my sightis rescued just- by the velvet edge of your voice. And how faithfully, how lightly, You call my name!

*** Your heart, is the Dove of Peace, baptized in the bed of blood, yet in rise, still in flightbeyond the roof of spite. Even so, How high, How wide, How highYou soar! By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, February 2009, Montreal From the anthology Abraham in Fire, first published in 1973, Tehran.

The RainAnd then, I saw my glorious Lady of Lovestanding above the Throne of Earth, at the gates of a misty lilac garden, contemplating her rainy days. **&** And then, I saw my glorious Lady of Love, standing above the Throne of Earth, at the delta of the torrent of lilies, her purple gown in a waltzwith a singing breeze. **&**

And then, I saw my glorious Lady of Love, arriving at the gates of this desolate Earth, from her perilous heavenly journey, with baskets of golden dews. By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2009, Montreal Translated from the poem "Baran"; first published in the anthology Bagh-e Ayeneh (Garden of Mirrors) 1956, Tehran. The picture is taken from: http://geodelady.deviantart.com/art/Purple-Dew-16408658

The Garden of MirrorsA lantern in my hand, A lantern in front of my eyes, I leave to battle the monster of night. Only now, when all the tired cradles of this land have resignedfrom their routine swinging into an enduring stillness, a sun from the depths of my heartis throwing numerous luminous raystowards the ashes of the lifeless stars, resting all over my sky inside. So tonight I deem, it is my time to leave. **&**

Amidst the wild screams of the lightening, as-if in plain conception of the rainsin the restless womb of the clouds; Amidst the silent pain of the vineswhen the embryo of grape grows- on the end of their limbs, Amidst all these pain and screams, the sound of my sobbing- was just another statementof the common urgefor relief. In these most frightening nights of plight, I also -like many others had beforehopelessly called the sunto unveil the dawn; and in vain. **&** But then, It was You. You had come from the land of Hundred Suns. You are from the town of Hundred Dawns. You'd be from the birthplace of silk, mirror and perfume. **&** Caught between the void and the vain, with no sign of gods and with no trace of fire, I helplessly implored your gaze, to stay by my side. And I helplessly implored your faith- in my cause. And, Youd beenan unyielding flowof light, of love and of life-

through the empty room between two death. And you'd been a bridge over the wide tears of solitudeand the harsh hits of lassitude. At last now, I see the glow of your gazeand I feel the warmth of your trust, in your eyes, in your hands! Now, at last! **&** Your blissis merciless indeed, yet so gracious! And your breath, softly striking the palms of my handsfeels like the anthem of peace. **&** Now I sway and I stir! You are here and I swing, sway, stir! A lantern in my hand, a lantern in front of my eyes, I leave to cleanse the stains over my soul. Then, I'll put a polished mirrorin front of yours, your eyes.

That is how I will make an eternityof You and I.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2009, Montreal Translated from the poem "Bagh-e Ayeneh" first published in the anthology Bagh-e Ayeneh (The Garden of Mirrors) 1956, Tehran.

Ayda in the MirrorWith his wife Ayda Sarkisian

Those two oblique lines, on your face, around your mouth, are the sketch of your prideand my fate as the wandererof dark, deserted lanes. Those two oblique lines, on your face, around your mouth, are the sketch of my fate in this obscure time, without being armed with the hope of dawnand a destination of light. Even so, I fearlessly kept a chastity unstained in the hazardous crossroads of this world. My life was a sacrifice, a fierce sacrifice, that never had someone attempted. Its owes its sense though, entirely to You. *** Your eyes are the mystery of fire. And your love is the triumph of mankind. The victory of the brave-hearts who challenged justthe rule of fate.

Your bosom, is a minute peaceful place, left to within restand to within dieand to flee the town; the towns that shamelessly accusethe truthfulness of heavens. *** The mountains, start with the first rocksat the edge of the abyss. And man, with the first cry of pain. In me dwelled a captive rebel, never accustomed to the noise of his chains. I was bornreborn freewith your first glance. *** In your splendid dance, storms are invited to play their charming fluteif they can. The chant of your tread, and the rhymes of your steps, awakens, inspires, a massive sunto rise slowly from the ashes of the seas. Let me too wake-up! And spread me over all the corners of the town, alike the silver rays of your light. ***

Your hands are peace, trust and amity. Your front, is an ornamented mirrorglowing at the edge of beauty. *** For your advent, in the empty frames of the mirrors, Long, I stared in the eyes of the glass; Long, I sailed through the tormented hearts of the seas. *** You! The Angel, made into flesh, immune from the flames of deceit! Your presence is an eternal blissthat justifies fleeing from the helland enduring the filth of this earth. It is a sea that cleansed me from all sins. And, The dawn is bornfrom the palm of your handsAlways. By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, February 2009, Montreal This poem was first published in the anthology Ayda dar Ayneh (Ayda in the Mirror) 1963, Tehran.

The MartyrLook how vasthis shielding shadowspreads on Earthsuch humblebut in much glory! His hands, the holy branches of Tree of Lifeblaze in the light of love. His fearless revolt, his far reaching revolt, burned the gates of Hell shook the walls of Hell. His death, not by the cold lames of razor blades, not by the slash of poisoned swords; But, the homeward dove of his deathlanded over his splendid shoulders, from the smoky cloud of his sorrowrunning behind him for years. And, his heart, the fortress of might, opening wide with any verse of amity, collapsed onto itselfbut never fell apart. (2) In the era of negation of love, entwined with himselfand his captive voice,

he became the Anthem of Love; and likewise, he becamethe Elegy of Love. (3) Look how chaste, how vast, he streams on Earth such humble and in much glory; only to engrave the effigy of nobility and truth on the heart of rocksfor us! Look how purehe fades away in the sea such humble and in much glory! And look how gracioushe kneels down in front of your thighs such humble and in much glory! Look and you will see: His death was the birth ofOh, so many Knights! By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, April 2009, Montreal. The poem's original title translates as: "The Birth of the one who lovingly died on Earth". It was first published in the anthology Abraham in Fire 1973, Tehran.

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 shadowand sorrow. The year Poury cried; The year of Mortezas blood; The resigning leap year (2) Life is not a trap. Love is not a trap. Not even death has ever been a trapa trap to me. For the dearly lovedand 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 meagain 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 whenI was about to turn into ashI went on fire. Life was spiteful to mebut somehowI could just smile. This earth was cruel to mebut somehowI could just lay unafraidon the ground. For perhaps, looking insideI could somehow decidethat 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 Mortezas blood; The year of gloom. But somehow, somewherein that yearI found the stars, I found the sublime, I found the good. And I bloomed. You are fine. And it is a confession. I have alreadyconfessed and criedmany times. Now, I can somehowconfess and smile. Perhaps for I could decidethe 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 worldand my might, and my words, my flesh and my soul, all turned into poem. Even the hardest rocksturned 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 becomeby your return, next springa 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 backto 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 Havaye Tazeh (Fresh Air) 1957, Tehran.

Vow for a Tryst

With his wife Ayda Sarkisian

My love, attains the indescribable. I love you beyond the frontiers of Your Flesh. Bring to me all the mirrors in this housethe candles, the red wineand a fervent moth. Get me to the arch-bridge of the rainbowsand to the tree of doves.

And then, I perpetuate this vowin the echoes of your silvery wear. I swear.**&** My love attainsthe uttermost awayof the frontiers of My Flesh: The remote resortwhere the sway of limbs ends, and the flame of desire fades awayamidst flying ashes and dancing dusts; in the winds. My Love for You, attains the unreachableand there, it stands still: The land, the sense breaks freefrom the cage of letters, words, scriptures, The instance, the tangle of matter and ghost finally endsin the ritual feast of vultures. **&**

True! Beyond the Frontiers of Love, I Love You. True! Beyond color and shapeBeyond canvas and paint, I had to portray this Love.

Promise Me a Tryst! Promise Me a Trystbeyond the confines ofour mere Matter of Incidence.By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2009, Montreal Translated from the poem "Meead" first published in the anthology Ayda dar Ayneh (Ayda in the Mirror) 1963, Tehran.

The ElegyFor 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 .

Traslated from the poem "Marthieh" first published in the anthology Marthiehhay Khak (Elegies of The Earth) 1956, Tehran.

Nocturnal 1965With his wife Ayda Sarkisyan

The river isthe recurring anthem of Dawn, performed at the proximityof the lake of night. And Day beginswith the last breath of the nightsresigning dark.

At present, this dawn that is taking slowly away the blaze of my torch, that is tenderly awakening the colourful birds on the carpets garden, seems like a sun, rising with might in my bloodfor the sake of Atonement. *** My open armsare the shrine of the eternally true. My wide open armsare the shelter of an invincible faithin which the divine and the devoteesand the prayer and the templehave the same facet: The creature praises the creator and the creator the creature. *** At present, in this dawn, all the blue springs I have livedand all the green leaves I have seenlay peacefully upon your fingers. This vast skyis burning in a silver blazethat streams from your pierced wrists. And, that is how the wellsprings of my veinsare replenished by your rain, and brought to life-

by your light. *** Recite your most beautiful verse! Disclose the veiled torment of your soul! Deliver the child of your grief! Recite, disclose, deliver! And fear not! Fear notMy belovedthat they say your talethe tale of your sacrificeis vain. For Love can never bea futile incident. Take all the timeto tell your tale! And if it takesthe sun not to rise tomorrow, Then, let it be this way! For love, is itself the next day, It is itself the light that lasts, ever-lasts. *** I yield to you, the greatest love of this world, saved unstained from the cruel course of numerous battles;

For nothing could ever touch meas profoundly as you;. Your heartis like a butterflydelicate, light, tender. My beloved, Proud of your feminine soul, Serene, patient, caring, Your triumph is the fruit of your truth. You! You have defeated flood, storm and snowand the ferocity of Sun in times of dearthwith your fervent patience. Now stand still! till your pride thaw in fire. Beloved! Darling! You carry the feast of plenty of startsin the flavour of your robesand the rhymes of your steps; testifying that the triumph of loveis all yours! *** There is no instanceNor any instant for you: A butterfly in flight, A river in rush.

Nothing can stream in reverse; And life reaches its end. True, The butterfly sits on a rose. And the river joins the sea.

By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani Translated from the poem "Shabeneh'' first published in the anthology Ayda: Derakht, Khanjar va Khatreh (Ayda: Trees, Daggers and All the Memories) 1965, Tehran.

Nocturnal-1964With his wife Ayda Sarkisyan

I love her, for I much know of her truthand I much believe in her loyalty. In this land, of pain, lies and cruelty, only holding her handsI see, I learn, I touch, I understand, the depth of her sorrow the child of her immense loneliness. **&** Her sorrow, feels like a cold dusk,

spent in a remote exile. But her joy, is the rising of all the stars, and a full moon; and also the pleasing smell of bread, and the fresh air of open windowsin a spring dawn, An open windowfacing the dancing lake of hyacinths. **&** A wellspring, or a butterfly, or a tiny flower, fills her heartwith such a bliss. But her joy, gives way to a silent pain, at the slightest hits of my despair. The despair that for a whileI did not wake up to the aura of a poemafter the long nights of thought. But when I say: Ill be writing a poemtonight, for sure! She falls in to the depths of her sleeplike a stone, falling into a peaceful lakelike Buddha in Nirvana. And then, I can see in herstill a little girl, asleep dreaming, holding her favourite doll.

**&** And if, in a hit of despair, I once more say: Bliss is an illusion, a passing incidencemaybe even, an error of Providence! She fades away behind thick clouds of sorrowlike a stone disappearing in an unmoving lakelike Buddha in Nirvana. And I concede, for she, well, knowsmuch about Love, hence Joy, a love that is- the perfect tangle of souls. **&** On the face of my life, every line testifies of a pain, a scarring pain. But, to the eyes of my life, now- framing her face, Ayda is the most amazing graceand the full proof of deliverance.

At first, I gazed at herfor long, long time. So long that when my eyesslid away from her to look at the world, I noticed the air has taken her colorand the sight has taken her scent. Then, I knew. I knew thatI can flee her no more, never and to nowhere! By Ahmad Shamlou, 1964 Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2009, Montreal. First published in the anthology Ayda: Derakht, Khanjar va Khatreh (Ayda: Trees, Daggers and All the Memories) 1965, Tehran.

...By Ahmad Shamlou

Poetry, is Libertyand Liberation, Poetry,

is a suspicion congregating with conviction, at last.

And, a bullet shotat the target, the endhitting the center. It is a content sigh, It is the reliefs sign. And, it is the concrete verdict of seatwhen it falls down from underneath feet, to let the burden of body bursts beneath its own weight, everytime the salvage of soulowes to this last resort. *** No bird, had ever guided meto the discovery of the depth of this land: I grew, by myself, from the gloom of this soil, like a wild flowernext to the filthy mud of a slim river-

forever devoid of gardener. And it is so that some, are -even now- such regarding me:

He lives offour belongings and past-earnings. And he sodaringly exhaleshis malodorous breathin the pure airof our field.Except that, the truth, the fact iswhen they embarked in this land, the one who received them with wide open arms, with open arms, was I. By Ahmad Shamlou Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2008, Montreal The poem "..." was first published in The Dirges of The Earth (Marsieyeh-ha- ye Khak), 1969 Tehran.

The Ode of DefeatOf narratingthe heavenly tale of your hands, the twin children of love and light, I would never resign nor ever be tired.

deterred Only if I could, in this world of concealed dealand ordeal. The most enchanting air of the airs, The messiah, the Great Mother, the sun! Of all that, numerous songs I could compose, with the cords of my soul, with the harp of my heart. Only if I could, in this world of concealed dealsand ordeal. *** Shades, colours, numberless shades, The unique rainbow beneath your eyebrows; The only spring- in this dry, everlasting fall! Of the sight of your tread on this earth, I could such sketch and paint. Only if I could, numberless in this world of concealed dealand ordeal. *** A spring in the heart, A waterfall from the palm of hand, A sun and countless stars in the sky of eyes An angel dancing on the dried ryes! Of the human, Of the woman, Of the spirit and the lifethat you bravely bear inside, I would never resign nor ever be tiredof telling the tale.

Only if I could, in this world of concealed dealand ordeal. Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2009, Montreal) .

Traslated from the poem "Ghazali dar Natavanestan" first published in the anthology Ayhda: Derakht, Khanjar va Khatereh (Aya: Trees, Blades and all the Memories) 1965, Tehran.

he BanquetTranslated by Iraj Kaboli and Khashayar Shahriari

After the epic of Siah-Kal

Narrator: But a curved dagger alone lies on a dish across a lush feast table. Host: My Lords! My Lords! Please, treat my home as your own! Narrator: Into the guests' chalices the slaves pour poison from ancient decanters. Their smiles tulips and lies. With their aprons stretched out they demand reward for offering death with ease. The dead are laid upon far off shelves, the living in chests.

Around the lush table we stare at the bloodless faces of our fellow-guests: Oh, wonder! Who are we? We're neither dead laid on the far off shelves, nor alive in the chests. Only the bloody oorway and the blood-stained carpet bear witness that, barefooted, we've walked upon a path of swords. Contenders: to sit at the table? The women are gilded with a sickly yellow slime! Jester: The garden without cherubs is an incomplete beauty!Mocking laughter.

Vagabond:Hastens forward, and hastens past.

The bailiffs are saints. The bailiffs are saints. The bailiffs are saints. The bailiffs are sainCut with the sound of a bullet. Long silence. Mourners' drums and cymbals from far off. Footsteps of slowly-moving mourners, against the background of the eulogist's oration. Now and then the drums and cymabals are faintly heard.

Eulogist:

In an epic tone.

See him off with a sweet tune for Satan was the Archangel close and intimate. "No!", he shouted heedlessly, altough his wings were his immortality, although he knew that the cry was the hopeless scream of a broken-winged falling bird. He was not downcast nor ashamed of himself, and did not pass in the cool shade: his way was through the sun even though blazing and tasting of blood. His head he kept high and proud; although he who keeps his head low is immune to the dark curse of the gallows. Narrator:With the same tone.

"You will deny", they said, "the song of the quail and the murmur of the water singing in freedom." Vagabond: This seemingly-minute, however, is the great truth of the world. And the greatness of every sun to the feeble-sighted seem

like an asteroid, and the moon like the paperish clipping of a baby's fingernail; and the ritual silver coin put in the baby's palm. The moon, the tiny fingernail, and the silver farthing of deception! But those who accept deny themselves. This is not the crown to be snatched from between two lions, it's a kiss on the crown of the sun and demands your life together with your bone-ashes. Eulogist: The women brought forth their loves, their frames fevered with the heat of acceptance and nurturing; desire flaming up from their waistlines. And consummate beauty was of chastity a cloak on their nudity. Women in Love:Aside, lamenting

The root the deepest root calls aloud from the heart of the earth: "The scent of the farthest flower bud must turn into honey!"

Eulogist: Mothers, In their search for you, have revived forgotten loves, for your spilt blood was a noble experience. Mothers: The root the deepest root calls aloud from the heart of the earth: "The scent of the farthest flower bud must turn into honey!" Oh, children! Warm little children of earth, who are killed innocent to open up the chambers of Heaven unto your parents!We're seeing those chambers right now on earth, not in the quivering mirage of a deceptive heaven, with walls of steel and shade of stone under shadow-casting trees whose green scent is the reminder of your blood running in the roots of a deep faith. Eulogist:

Men are descending the green footpaths, with love on their figures inevitable like moss on a rock; and wounds upon their breasts. Their eyes affection and hate, their teeth in a smile of determination are the hanging curved dagger of the moon in the bandit night. From the grim density into the darkness they bore a cold tunnel (where beech and maple have grown in vain and growing is a task fulfilled by the yawning soil even though the sun with her shining blade every morning cuts a seedling's umbilical cord, in an era when honour is an astounding rarity that disturbs the quiescence of the dead not the repose of the living.) Orator: Oh, message fabricators, messengers! What need is there to imitate the saints by sitting against the back-drop of a setting sun in such a slow-passing day and putting your head in the sun's golden platter? What need is there to sit in a way so that the sun's halo be seen

around your face? That concealed-visible dagger has already proclaimed the "rightfulness" of this "divine" mission!The four-beat rhythm of a drum from far away It suddenly stops. A long heavy silence.

Narrator: The Demon is sternly posing upon an enormous pedestal of stone with the spittle of a satisfied sneer running down his chin. Envoys from sea to sea, all over the land knock on every door in search and criers announce:Far and near doors are knocked on.

Criers:In changing numbers and from various distances.

"Virgins worthy of the Lord! Virgins worthy of the Lord!" Jester:Aside

For the garden of decay is a prized legacy! The garden of decay. The garden of decay.The garden of decay

Narrator: But a shuddering question whirls around you: Contenders: They have testified that you've perceived the time's boundless extent in the four-syllabled cycle of the year; you've testified that you've seen the God's secret in human shape and perpetuity in love. Would the Spring smile in the bitter scent of the burning leaves when the sun is spelt in the fluffy snow spangle? Jester: Yes, but just a sneer. The bailiffs are saints! The bailiffs are saints! Contenders: And the absolute truth of the world, now is nothing but these two blood-dripping cynical eyes. One Contender:

These two watchful eyes in this head lurking behind glass and stone observing you. Jester: I know! And if I trusted the truthfulness of my eyes I would have known long before that the image mirrored in the clarity of the sky is nothing but my own distant image. Orator: You must keep silent if your message is nothing but lies But if you have the chance to moan in freedom then thunder out the message and power it with your life.

The Beginning Untimely in a land unknown at a time yet not arrived. Thus, I was born within the forest of beast and rock. My heart

in void started beating. I abandoned the cradle of reiteration in a land with no bird, no spring. My first journey was a return from the hope-abrading vistas of thorn and sand, without having gone far on the inexperienced feet of the fledgeling that was I. My first journey was a return. The vast distance taught no hope. Trembling, I stood on the feet of the novice that was I facing the horizon ablaze. I realized that there was no tidings for in between stood a mirage. The vast distance taught no hope. I learnt that there was no tidings: This boundless was a prison so huge that the soul hid in tears from shame of impotence. Nocturnal If in vain is night beautiful what for is night beautiful for whom is it beautiful? The night

and the curveless stream of stars that flows cold. The long-haired mourners on the banks, with the breath-taking chant of toads, are lamenting the reminiscence of which memory, while every dawn is pierced with the chorus of twelve bullets? On Night At night, when the silver moonstream makes a lake of limitless plain, I spread the sails of my thoughts in the path of the wind. At night, when no sound rises from the reed beds deep in the ponds, I joyously voice my bright hope like a sunshaft. At night, when songs are sung of hopelessness, I await from far off the sun's lip scorching warmly kissing the neighbor's rooftop. At night, when a sorrow congeals in the cold of the garden, I listen for the death coughs in the groan-rattle of my decaying chain-hands. Mist Mist has blanketed the desert, all over. The village lights are hidden. A warm wave pulsates through the desert arteries. the desert

weary tightlipped breathless slowly perspires from every pore in the delirium of the mist. "- Mist has blanketed the desert," (says the passerby to himself). |"The village dogs are quiet." "Hidden in a dervish cloak of mist, I'll reach home." "Gol Ku doesn't know. She will see me suddenly at the threshold, In her eye a tear, on her lips a smile, She will say: "Mist has blanketed the desert, all over I figured if the mist remained like this till day, Bold men would return from hiding places to dear ones." Mist has blanketed the desert, all over. The village lights are hidden. A warm wave pulsates through the desert arteries. the desert weary tightlipped breathless slowly perspires from every pore in the delirium of the mist.

The Fish I don't suppose my heart was ever warm and red like this before. I sense that in the worst moments of this black, death-feeding repast a thousand thousand well-springs of sunlight,

stemming from certitude, well up in my heart. I sense, further, that in every nook and cranny of this salt barrenness of despair a thousand thousand joy forests, stemming from the soil, are suddenly springing. Oh, lost certitude, oh, sea-creature fleeing in the concentric, shivering, mirroring pools, I am the clear pool: mesmerized by love, search out a path for me among the mirror pools. I don't think my hand was ever strong and alive like this, before. I sense that at the flow of blood-red tears in my eyes a duskless sun pours forth a song. I sense that in my every vein, in time with my every heart beat, the warning bell of a departing caravan tolls. She, bare, came

one evening through the door like the soul of water. At her breast two fish In her hand a mirror Her wet hair, moss fragrance, intertwined moss. On the threshold of despair, I bellowed: Ah, oh retrieved certitude. I won't put you again aside. A Sketch The night bloody throated called out. The sea is seated cold, The branch in the forest black towards light Screams. In This Deadend They smell your breath.You better not have said, "I love you." They smell your heart. These are strange times, darling... And they flog love at the roadblock. We had better hide love in the closet... In this crooked dead end and twisting chill, they feed the fire

with the kindling of song and poetry. Do not risk a thought. These are strange times, darling... He who knocks on the door at midnight has come to kill the light. We had better hide light in the closet... Those there are butchers stationed at the crossroads with bloody clubs and cleavers. These are strange times, darling... And they excise smiles from lips and songs from mouths. We had better hide joy in the closet... Canaries barbecued on a fire of lilies and jasmine, these are strange times, darling... Satan drunk with victory sits at our funeral feast. We had better hide God in the closet.

THE GAP To be borne on the dark spear, like the open birth of a wound. To travel the unique exodus of opportunity throughout in chains to burn on one's flame to the very last spark, on the flame of a reverence found by the slaves in the dust of the way, thus thus red and coquettish, to bloom on the thorn-bush of blood and thus tall and proud, to pass through the scourge-field of degradation and to reach the extreme of hatred

Oh, whom am I speaking of? The living with no reason we are conscious to reason of their death they. Dark SONG In the leaden backdrop of the dawn the horseman stands in silence the long mane of his horse disheveled by the wind. O, Lord ! O, Lord! Horseman are not to stand still, when the event is brewing. Beside the burnt hedge the girl stands in silence her delicate skirt waving in the wind. O, Lord! O, Lord! Girls should not to remain silent, when weary and hopeless men grow old.

ALLEGORY To live in a cry. (The rebellious flight of a fountain that cannot escape the earth and is simply trying deliverance.) And the glory of dying in the fountain of a cry (the earth pulls you to itself

madly to gain a source of fertility, for martyrs and rebels are all the same for fertility they are the rain and fervor. To become the rain of grace for the earth such is the fountain's death or else this earth will turn into a swamp, when you die like a trifling stream. Be a cry to rain or else die. FUNERAL ORATION The unknowing are alike only the tempest bears peerless children. Those alike are as shadows prudent on the edges of sunshine in the guise of the living they are dead. And these staring danger in the face are guardians of fire the living marching beside death ahead of death always alive even after traversing death and always hearing the name with which they lived

for decay passes beneath the tall threshold of their memory hunched and shamefaced. Discoverers of the fountainhead humble discoverers of the hemlock pursuing joy in the mouth of the volcanoes magicians of smiles in the hats of pain with footprints deeper than joy on the paths of birds. They face the thunder enlighten the house and die. SONG OF THE GREATEST WISH Ah, if liberty sang a song little as the larynx of a bird nowhere would there remain a tumbling wall. It would not take years to learn that every ruin signifies man's absence for the presence of man is restoration and renewal. Like a wound a lifelong bleeding like a wound a lifelong with pain beating eyes opening on the world in a cry in rancor disappearing thus was the great absence thus was the story of the ruin. Ah, if liberty sang a song little littler even than the larynx of a bird. I AM STILL THINKING OF THAT RAVEN

I am still thinking of that raven in the valleys of Yush: with the double rustle of its pair of black scissors it cut a slanting curve from the paper sky and through the dry croaking of its throat is said something to the nearby peak which the weary mountains bewildered under the full sun repeated for long in their rocky skulls. Sometimes I ask myself what a raven with its decisive final presence and its mournful persistent color may have to say to the aged mountains when at high noon it glides over the baked ocher of a wheat-field to soar atop a few aspens which these tired sleepy hermits repeat for long together at summer noontides.