Treasure Island

Ahmad Shamloo

(1925-2000 / Iran / Tehran)

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 dusk less 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.

Submitted: Thursday, May 15, 2014

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