Treasure Island

Forough Farrokhzad

(5 January 1935 - 14 February 1967 / Tehran)

Rebirth


My entire verve-
is a dark verse.
It will take you-
to the unending dawn of blooms,
flight and light.

In this verse,
I heaved you a sigh, sigh.

In this verse,
I tied you to trees,
water and flames.

Life perhaps,
is that long, shady road,
where every day, a woman wanders-
with her basket of fruits.

Life perhaps, is that rope;
the one that a man would hang himself with-
in a gray, rainy day-
from a thick branch.

Life perhaps,
is that child who is running back home.

Life perhaps,
is those brief smokes,
in the lazy, idle times-
stolen from two making-loves.

Life perhaps,
is that still instant,
when my eyes sink into-
the reflection of your sight.

Life perhaps,
is its sheltering sense;
I will merge it- with the flood of moonlight-
and the frozen abode of night.

In my little,
lonely room,
my heart is invaded-
by the silent crowd of love.

I am keeping track of my life:
The beautiful decay of a rose, in this antique vase;
the growing plant that you brought,
and those birds in their timber cage.
They are singing every hour,
up to the full depth-
of their view.

Oh…
This is my share.
This is my share.
My share,
is a piece of sky-
and a little shade-
can take it away.

My share,
is a gradual descent-
from some deserted stairs.
It is a sudden landing- in some forsaken, exiling place.

My share,
is a gloomy march-
in the distant garden of my past.

My share,
is a slow death-
for the advent of a voice.
The voice-
who once said:
“I love your hands”.

I will plant my hands.
I will grow,
I know, I know, I know.
And a lost bird-
will lay lots of eggs-
in my inky palms.

I will pick a pair of twin cherries,
and I will hang them on my ears.
I will take two white oleanders,
And I will put them charily-
on my fingertips.

There is a road,
full of young, vulgar boys.
I used to be their sole muse.
They are still hanging-
with their untidy hair,-
with the same thin legs,
about the same square.
And,
they are still thinking-
of that little girl with a shy beam;
the girl that one day-
faded in the breeze.

There is a congested road that my heart,
kept it from my childhood neighborhood.

The journey of a mass in the row of Time;
And loading this arid line,
with the weight of its shape-
a polished, smooth, even shape-
coming from a place,
just after the village of mirrors.
And it is so-
that someone remains
and some will die.

Did you ever meet a fisher who caught a pearl-
in the yellow, inert, close-by river?


I know a sad, little fairy.
She is living in a remote ocean.
And she is playing her heart-
into a wooden flute.

A sad little fairy-
who dies every dusk.
She is reborn the day after-
right at the dawn,
from a slight kiss.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, Montréal.

Submitted: Thursday, December 29, 2011
Edited: Thursday, December 29, 2011

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