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.
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.
is that child who is running back home.
is those brief smokes,
in the lazy, idle times-
stolen from two making-loves.
is that still instant,
when my eyes sink into-
the reflection of your sight.
is its sheltering sense;
I will merge it- with the flood of moonlight-
and the frozen abode of night.
In my little,
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.
This is my share.
This is my share.
is a piece of sky-
and a little shade-
can take it away.
is a gradual descent-
from some deserted stairs.
It is a sudden landing- in some forsaken, exiling place.
is a gloomy march-
in the distant garden of my past.
is a slow death-
for the advent of a 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.
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.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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