Born Again
Tr: Guity Novin
All my existence is a dark oracle
that will accompany you repeatedly in itself
to the down of all eternal blooming and burgeoning
In this oracle I sighed you,
I sighed,
in this oracle I grafted you to Tree, to Water, and to Fire
Life, is perhaps,
a long alleyway, along which a woman ,
with her wicker-basket of groceries,
traverse -- everyday.
Life is perhaps
a rope by which a man hangs himself from a branch,
Life is perhaps a returning child from school,
Life is perhaps lighting up of a cigarette in the lazy moments in between two love-makings,
or
a distracted look of an aloof passerby,
Who tipping his hat to another passerby
saying "Good morning" , with an indifferent smile,
Life is perhaps that dead-end instant
when my gaze destroys my reflection in the deep of your eyes,
and I make sense of it,
that I will amalgamate with my comprehension of the Moon and my grasp of Darkness,
In a room, the same size as my solitude,
my heart,
which is the same size as my love,
looks for her simple excuses for happiness,
at the beautiful fading of flowers in the vase,
at the young tree that you planted in our garden,
and the singing canaries
singing in the size of a window.
Alas,
this is my allotment
this is my allotment.
My allotment,
is piece of heaven , which will be denied me when the curtain drops down.
My allotment is descending a flight of abandoned stairs,
reaching for something that is wasting away in an alien place.
My allotment is a sorrowful wandering in the garden of memories
and drawing my last breath in the grief of a voice which whispers me
I love your hands.
I plant my hands in the garden,
I will sprout,
I know,
I know,
I Know,
and swallows will lay eggs in
the hollows between my ink-stained fingers,
I will wear earrings on my both ears,
made from a pair of red twine cherries,
and I will paint my fingernails with dahlia petals
There's an alleyway somewhere,
where the young lads
with their disheveled hairs, slender necks, and skinny legs
who loved me once,
still are thinking of the innocent smiles of a young maiden
who was gone one night with the wind.
There is an alleyway somewhere.
that my heart has stolen
from the neighborhood of my girlhood.
The voyage of a mass along the line of time
and to impregnate the barren line of time with the mass,
a mass made of a perceptive image,
returning from a feast in a mirror.
And this is how someone dies,
and someone survives.
No pearl-hunter finds pearls in a small brook flowing down into a pond
I know a sad little fairy
who dwells in an ocean
and softly, softly plays
her heart into a reed flute,
A sad little fairy that every night dies by a kiss,
and is reborn by a kiss every dawn.
The Windup Doll
Tr: Guity Novin
More than these many long hours, ah yes,
more than these one can remain silent,
and stare, like the fixed gaze of the dead ,
at the smoke rising from a cigarette
stare at the form of a teacup
at the pastel colored flower of a rug,
at an imaginary line drawn on a wall
One can use the stiff fingers
to draw curtains aside and see
the heavy shower in the alley,
where a child stands under a canopy,
holding his colorful kites.
An old battered cart leaves he deserted square
at raucous haste.
One can stand still beside the curtain,
blind, and deaf.
With a voice, very strange , very deceptive
One can yell,
"I'm in love!"
One can be a beautiful and healthy maiden
in the conquering arms of a man
with a body in leathery skin
with two breasts, bosomy and hard
One can defile the purity of a love
in a bed with a drunkard,
a fool ,
a vagabond .
One can disparage with cunning,
all kinds of intriguing enigmas,
Or one can only be satisfied with solving crossword puzzles,
taking delight in discovering a frivolous answer,
yes, a frivolous answer, encompassing five or six letters.
One can spend a lifetime kneeling
with the head bowed in front of a cold tabernacle.
One can see God in an apocryphal tomb.
One can procure faith with a worthless coin.
One can decay like an old chanter
in the enclosure of a monastery.
One can, be like a zero in multiplication, subtraction, or addition,
always making singular results.
One can imagine that your eyes in their cocoon of anger,
are color-faded buttons of an old pair of shoes .
One can, like water, vanish, when the pond drys up,
One can abashedly hide,
at the bottom of a chest,
the beauty of a rare moment of foolishness,
like an embarrassing instant snapshot in black and white.
One can in an empty frame of a day
display the image of an accused,
a vanquished,
a crucified.
One can cover the holes in the wall with masques.
One can juxtapose them with more absurd images.
.
One can be like windup dolls,
and see its own world with a pair of glassy eyes.
One can sleep for years,
inside a felt-lined box,
in a body stuffed with straw
,
covered in layers of lace and tinsel.
One can cry out purposelessly;
"Oh, I am so blessed!"
with every lascivious squeeze of a hand.
It is only the voice that endures.
Tr: Guity Novin
Why should I halt?
The birds are flown towards the blue horizon,
A vertical horizon, a fountain-like ascension
to the limits of vision,
where the shining galaxies are dancing.
At a far distance in space, the earth will germinate,
and aerial currents,
morph into channels of passion
And a day is an expanse,
that may not be contained by the confined fancy
of newspaper worms.
Why should I halt?
the road runs through the capillaries of life,
The fertile quality of the moon's womb,
will destroy the putrid cells,
and in the chemical space after the dawn
there's only voice
the voice that will gravitate towards the particles of time.
Why should I halt?
What can a quagmire be,
other than a spawning swamp of harmful insects?
Those who inscribe the mortuary's thoughts,
are the swollen corpses.
The impotent has only hidden in the darkness
his masculinity.
... and the cockroach, alas,
when the cockroach speaks!
Why should I halt?
The rapport with lead typefaces is futile,
the rapport will not be capable of
rescuing the lowly thoughts
I am descending from the Tree dynasty,
inhaling stale air asphyxiates me.
A dead bird, once had advised me to keep in mind
the possibility of flight.
The ultimate reason for all forces, is a union
a union with the shining essence of the sun
and flowing into the acumen of light.
It is only natural for a windmill to crumble
Why should I stop?
I draw to my breast
the unripened bunches of wheat
and suckle them.
Voice, voice, only voice;
the desirous voice a pellucid water to flow,
the voice of the downpour of light of stars
on the labia of earth's femininity,
the germination voice of the meaning's embryo,
and the shared diffusion of loves' perspicacity
Voice, voice, voice
It is only the voice that endures
In the territory of midgets,
the assessing criteria are based around the zero degree latitude.
Why should I halt?
I am obeying the four elements,
and the setting of my heart's organizing codes,
is not assigned to the local government of blinds.
Why do I care about the lengthy moaning in wilderness,
provoked from an animal's sexual organ?
Why do I care about a worm's insignificant movement inside a fleshy cavity?
I am committed to life by the blood heritage of flowers
The blood heritage of flowers, do you understand?
The Vanquished Garden
That raven,
which flew over our heads
and plunged into the agitated mind of
a wandering cloud,
whose call, like a short spear,
traversed the whole expanse of the horizon
will tattle on us to the town.
Everybody knows,
everybody knows,
that you and I, peeked through a scowling crevice
and saw the garden,
and picked the apple
from that yonder frisky branch.
Everybody is frightened,
everybody is frightened , but you and I
that were united with Light, Water, and Mirror,
and were not intimidated.
This is not about a meaningless merging of two names
or cuddling in the old pages of a wedding certificate.
It's about my joyous tresses,
mingled with the ablaze poppies of your kisses,
and the rubbery of our intimate bodies
that is shimmering in our nakedness
like the scales of fishes in the water.
It's about a silvery life of a song,
sang by a small fountain in the dawn.
Once upon a night we asked from the wild bunnies ,
of that green fluvial forest,
we asked shells filled with pearls
of that calm, anxious sea
We asked the young falcons,
of that secluded triumphant mountain,
"what should be done?"
Everybody knows,
everybody knows,
that we've found the path towards
the wintry silence of griffins' dream,
that we've found the truth in the flowerbed,
in the skittish glance of an anonymous flower,
and that we've found eternity in an unbounded instance,
when two suns gazed at each other.
This is not about a diffident murmuring in the dark.
It's about day
