forough farrokhzad poems

[*JujU*]

Another Birth


A dark and chanted verse is what I am
Forever bearing you
In myself imbued with you
Forth to the morning of eternal burgeonings and blooms
Oh yes I drew you through this verse oh breath
Oh yes I drew you through
This verse and crafted you
To seas to trees to fire I grafted you.

Life may be
A street crossed by a woman with a basket every day
Life may be
Rope for a man who hangs himself from a branch.
Life may be a child coming home from school.
Life may be a cigarette lighting
Up in the narcotic pause between lovemaking and love made
Or the dazed gaze of a passerby
Tipping his hat to a passerby
With a senseless smile and a Good Morning.
Life may be that cloistered moment
When my gaze comes to ruin in your pupils
Wherein there lies a feeling
Which I shall blend
With the moon's impression
And the night's perception.
In a room the size of loneliness
My heart the size of love
Looks at the simple pretext of its happiness,
The vase's flowers, their beautiful decay,
The sapling that you implanted in our garden
And the canaries' song
Wide as a window frame.

Oh
My lot is this
My lot is this
This sky abducted from my sight by a hung curtain,
This passage down a deserted stairway
To retrieve something from amid the rot and banished thoughts.
My lot is a sad promenade in nostalgia's garden,
My lot is to catch my death in the despair of the voice that says to me
'I love
Your hands.'

I shall plant my hands in the garden
And I will grow I know I know oh I know
And in my hand's inkstained hollow
The swallow
Shall lay its eggs.

I shall wear
A pair of cherries as ear-rings
And dress my nails with dahlia petals
There is an alley where
Boys who were in love with me even now
Linger with the very unkempt hair and lanky legs
Recollecting the innocent smiles of a little girl
The wind blew away one night.

There is an alley my heart
Has stolen from my childhood's neighborhood

A form journeying along time's line
Inseminating time's dry line with form
A form aware of an image
Back from a mirror's feast

And that is how it is
That somebody dies
While someone abides
None who fish
In the tiny stream that drains out into a ditch
Can ever fish up a pearl.

I
Know a sad little ocean sprite
Down in her watery haven
Who oh so softly
Plays her heart through a flute,
A sad little sprite
Who dies from a kiss at night
To be born from a kiss at dawn.

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The Original:

تولدى ديگر
فروغ فرخزاد

همه هستي من آيه تاريكيس ت
كه ترا در خود تكرار كنان
به سحرگاه شكفتن ها و رستن هاي ابدي خواهد برد
من در اين آيه ترا آه كشيدم آه
من در اين آيه ترا
به درخت و آب و آتش پيوند زدم

زندگی شاید
یک خیابان درازست که هر روز زنی با زنبیلی از آن میگذرد
زندگی شاید
ریسمانی ست که مردی با آن خود را از شاخه میاویزد
زندگی شاید طفلیست که از مدرسه بر میگردد
زندگی شاید افروختن سیگاری باشد ، در فاصلهء رخوتناک دو
همآغوشی
یا عبور گیج رهگذری باشد
که کلاه از سر بر میدارد
و به یک رهگذر دیگر با لبخندی بی معنی میگوید ' صبح بخیر '

زندگی شاید آن لحظه مسدودیس ت
که نگاه من ، در نی نی چشمان تو خود را ویران میسازد
ودر این حسی است
که من آن را با ادراک ماه و با دریافت ظلمت خواهم آمیخت

در اتاقی که به اندازهء یک تنهاییس ت
دل من
که به اندازهء یک عشقست
به بهانه های سادهء خوشبختی خود مینگرد
به زوال زیبای گل ها در گلدان
به نهالی که تو در باغچهء خانه مان کاشته ای
و به آواز قناری ها
که به اندازهء یک پنجره میخوانن د

آه...
سهم من اینست
سهم من اینست
سهم من ،
آسمانیس ت که آویختن پرده ای آنرا از من میگیرد
سهم من پایین رفتن از یک پله مترو کست
و به چیزی در پوسیدگی و غربت و اصل گشتن
سهم من گردش حزن آلودی در باغ خاطره هاست
و در اندوه صدایی جان دادن که به من بگوید :
' دستهایت را
دوست میدارم '

دستهایم را در باغچه میکارم
سبز خواهم شد ، میدانم ، میدانم ، میدانم
و پرستوها در گودی انگشتان جوهریم
تخم خواهند گذاشت

گوشواری به دو گوشم میآویزم
از دو گیلاس سرخ همزاد
و به ناخن هایم برگ گل کوکب میچسبان م
کوچه ای هست که در آنجا
پسرانی که به من عاشق بودند ، هنوز
با همان موهای درهم و گردن های باریک و پاهای لاغر
به تبسم های معصوم دخترکی میاندیش ند که یک شب او را
باد با خود برد

کوچه ای هست که قلب من آن را
از محل کودکیم دزدیده ست

سفر حجمی در خط زمان
و به حجمی خط خشک زمان را آبستن کردن
حجمی از تصویری آگاه
که ز مهمانی یک آینه بر میگردد

و بدینسان ست
که کسی میمیرد
و کسی میماند
هیچ صیادی در جوی حقیری که به گودالی میریزد ، مروارید ی
صید نخواهد کرد .

من
پری کوچک غمگینی را
میشناسم که در اقیانوس ی مسکن دارد
و دلش را در یک نی لبک چوبین
مینوازد آرام ، آرام
پری کوچک غمگینی
که شب از یک بوسه میمیرد
و سحرگاه از یک بوسه به دنیا خواهد آمد


Forough Farrokhzad

​

 

[*JujU*]

Gift


I speak out of the deep of night
out of the deep of darkness
and out of the deep of night I speak.

If you come to my house, friend
bring me a lamp and a window I can look through
at the crowd in the happy alley.



​

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1]The Wave[/h]
To me you are a wave;
never here, never there!
You are –still- nowhere!

Grabbing,
dragging, then fleeing away,
you swiftly spread- like a deadly plague,
on the run for the Other Soil, your destination's vague!

Watching you-
from far and wide,
in my seized eye,
you’re a rebellious tide-
in an eternal glide.

Insistent, impatient, then a restless errant,
you must be calm in heart, fretful just in act!
And I now know, the sea of regret- is your native land.

Yes, you are an unruly tide!
So always on the ride,
in an eternal glide!

But one night,
I will wear a mask-
made of the thirst-
of the remotest shores,
and their desert islands.
And I’ll capture you- in my absorbing sands,
forever far away- from your naval natal lands.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2006, Montreal


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1]It Is Only Sound That Remains[/h]
Why should I stop, why?
the birds have gone in search
of the blue direction.
the horizon is vertical, vertical
and movement fountain-like;
and at the limits of vision
shining planets spin.
the earth in elevation reaches repetition,
and air wells
changes into tunnels of connection;
and day is a vastness,
which does not fit into narrow mind
of newspaper worms.

why should I stop?
the road passes through the capillaries of life,
the quality of the environment
in the ship of the uterus of the moon
will kill the corrupt cells.
and in the chemical space after sunrise
there is only sound,
sound that will attract the particles of time.
why should I stop?

what can a swamp be?
what can a swamp be but the spawning ground
of corrupt insects?
swollen corpses scrawl the morgue's thoughts,
the unmanly one has hidden
his lack of manliness in blackness,
and the bug... ah,
when the bug talks,
why should I stop?
cooperation of lead letters is futile,
it will not save the lowly thought.
I am a descendant of the house of trees.
breathing stale air depresses me.
a bird which died advised me to
commit flight to memory.
the ultimate extent of powers is union,
joining with the bright principle of the sun
and pouring into the understanding of light.
it is natural for windmills to fall apart.

why should I stop?
I clasp to my breast
the unripe bunches of wheat
and breastfeed them

sound, sound, only sound,
the sound of the limpid wishes
of water to flow,
the sound of the falling of star light
on the wall of earth's femininity
the sound of the binding of meaning's sperm
and the expansion of the shared mind of love.
sound, sound, sound,
only sound remains.

in the land of dwarfs,
the criteria of comparison
have always traveled in the orbit of zero.
why should I stop?
I obey the four elements;
and the job of drawing up
the constitution of my heart
is not the business
of the local government of the blind.

what is the lengthy whimpering wildness
in animals sexual organs to me?
what to me is the worm's humble movement
In its fleshy vacuum?
the bleeding ancestry of flowers
has committed me to life.
are you familiar with the bleeding
ancestry of the flowers?


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1][FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Age Seven


Ay, age seven
Ay, the magnanimous moment of departure
Whatever happened after you,
happened in a mesh of insanity and ignorance.

After you,
the window which was a lively and bright connection
between the bird and us
between the breeze and us
broke
broke
broke
after you,
that earthly doll which did not utter a thing,
nothing but water
water
water
drowned
in water.

After you,
we killed the cricket's voice
we became lured
by the bell ring rising off of the letters of the alphabet
and the whistling of the arms factory.

After you, where our playground was beneath the desk
we graduated from beneath the desks
to behind the desks
and from behind the desks
to top of the desks
and we played on top of the desks
and lost
we lost your color
Aah, age seven.

After you,
we betrayed each other
after you,
we cleansed your memories
by lead particles and splattered blood-drops
off of the plastered temples of alley walls.

after you
we went to the squares
and shouted:
'long live...
and down with....'

and in the clamor of the square
we applauded the little singing coins
which had insidiously come to visit our town.

After you,
us: each other's murderers,
judged love
and while our hearts were anxious in our pockets,
we judged love's share.

After you
we resorted to cemeteries and death was breathing under the grandmother's veil
and death
was that corpulent tree
which the living of this side of the 'origin'
would tie their desire-thread to its weary branches
and the dead of the other side of the 'end'
would paw at its phosphorous roots
and death
was sitting on that sacred mausoleum which had four blue tulips
abruptly lighting up at its four corners.

the sound of the wind is coming
the sound of the wind is coming
Aah, age seven.

I rose up and drank water
and suddenly recollected how the plantations of your youth
became agitated by the swarm of crickets.

how much must one pay?
how much for the growth of this cemented cubicle?

We lost everything we must have lost
we started treading without a lantern
and moon
moon
the kind Feminine
was always there
in the childhood memories of a clay and straw rooftop
and above the young plantations
dreading the swamp of crickets.

How much must one pay?......


Translated by: Leila Farjami
[/FONT]

Forough Farrokhzad

[/h]

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1]The Bird May Die...[/h]
I feel sad,
I feel blue.

I go outside and rub my cold fingers-
on the sleek shell of the silent night.

I see that all lights of contact are dark,
All lanes to relate us- are blocked.

Nobody will introduce me to the sun,
Nobody will take me- to the gathering of doves.

Keep the flight in mind,
The bird may die.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, September 2006, Montreal

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Sin [Gonah][/FONT]

I sinned a sin full of pleasure,
In an embrace which was warm and fiery.
I sinned surrounded by arms
that were hot and avenging and iron.

In that dark and silent seclusion
I looked into his secret-full eyes.
my heart impatiently shook in my breast
In response to the request of his needful eyes.

In that dark and silent seclusion,
I sat dishevelled at his side.
his lips poured passion on my lips,
I escaped from the sorrow of my crazed heart.

I whispered in his ear the tale of love:
I want you, O life of mine,
I want you, O life-giving embrace,
O crazed lover of mine, you.

desire sparked a flame in his eyes;
the red wine danced in the cup.
In the soft bed, my body
drunkenly quivered on his chest.

I sinned a sin full of pleasure,
next to a shaking, stupefied form.
O God, who knows what I did
In that dark and quiet seclusion.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1]Love Song[/h]
My nights are painted bright with your dream, sweet love
and heavy with your fragrance is my breast.
you fill my eyes with your presence, sweet love.
giving me more happiness than grief.
like rain washing through the soil
you have washed my life clean.
you are the heartbeat of my burning body;
a fire blazing in the shade of my eyelashes.
you are more bountiful than the wheat fields,
more fruit-laden than the golden boughs.
against the onslaught of darkening doubts
you are a door thrown open to the suns.
when I am with you, I fear no pain
for my only pain is a pain of happiness.
this sad heart of mine and so much light?
sounds of life from the bottom of a grave?

Your eyes are my pastures, sweet love
the stamp of your gaze burning deep into my eyes.
if I had you within me before, sweet love
I would not take anybody else for you.
oh it's a dark pain, this urge of wanting;
setting out, belittling oneself fruitlessly;
laying one's head on chests hiding a black heart;
soiling one's breast with ancient hatred;
finding a snake in a caressing hand;
discovering venom behind friendly smiles;
putting coins into deceitful hands;
getting lost in the midst of bazaars.

You are my breath of life, sweet love,
you have brought me back to life from the grave.
you have come down from the distant sky,
like a star on two golden wings
silencing my loneliness, sweet love,
Imbuing my body with odors of your embrace.
you are water to the dry streams of my breasts,
you are a torrent to the dry bed of my veins.
in a world so cold and as bleak,
in step with your steps, I proceed.

You are hidden under my skin
flowing through my every cell,
singeing my hair with your caressing hand,
leaving my cheeks sunburned with desire.
you are, sweet love, a stranger to my dress
but so familiar with the fields of my nakedness.
o bright and eternal sunrise,
the strong sunshine of southern climes,
you are fresher than early dawn,
fresher and better-watered than spring-tide.
this is no longer love, it is dazzlement,
a chandelier blazing amidst silence and darkness.
ever since love was awakened in my heart,
I have become total devotion with desire.
this is no longer me, no longer me,
oh wasted are the years I lived with 'me.'
my lips are the altar of your kisses, sweet love
my eyes watching out for the arrival of your kiss.

You are the convulsions of ecstasy in my body,
like a garment, the lines of your figure covering me.
oh I am going to burst open like a bud,
my joy becoming tarnished for a moment with sorrow.
oh I wish to jump to my feet
and pour down tears like a cloud

This sad heart of mine and burning incense?
music of harp and lyre in a prayer-hall?
this empty space and such flights?
this silent night and so much song?
your gaze is like a magic lullaby, sweet love,
a cradle for restless babies.
your breathing is a breeze half-asleep
washing down all my tremors of anguish;
it is hidden in the smiles of my tomorrows,
it has sunken deep into the depths of my worlds.

You have touched me with the frenzy of poetry;
pouring fire into my songs,
kindling my heart with the fever of love,
thus setting all my poems ablaze, sweet love.

Translated By Karim Emami


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Bird Was Just A Bird[/FONT]


The birds said:
“What a bright day, what a fresh air!
Spring has arrived.
I must look for my mate.”

The bird fled from the edge of wire.
The bird soared away towards the clouds-
and disappeared fast.
Just like a wish,
Just like a prayer,
Just like a whisper,
The bird spread far and wide-
in the air.

The bird was tiny.
The bird was light.
The bird was not bright,
The bird was lonely,
But the bird, well,
was truly free.

In the sky,
Over the ups and downs of the hills and the lanes,
Over the traffic lights and over the stop signs,
The bird constantly flew.

And,
in the heights of the peace of her dreams,
She finally felt the blue sense of time and space.

The bird, well, was just a bird.
The bird, well, was truly free.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, February 2007, Santa Barbara


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[h=1]Someone Who Is Like No One[/h]
I had a dream,
someone will come.

I had a dream,
someone is coming- for sure.
I had a dream about a red star,
And my eyes are blinking all the time,
And my steps join up, out of the blue.

I swear to God!
I don’t lie!
I dreamed about a red, shiny star-
when I was, like, awake.

Someone will come,
I know.
Someone is coming,
Someone else,
Someone better,
Someone who is like no one!

Someone who is not like my daddy,
And is not even like my mom.
Someone who is not like Ali,
And is not like Sara.
Someone who is like no one-
But like the one who “ought to be”.

And,
he is taller than our neighbors’ trees,
And his face is brighter than Mohamed’s face.

He is not afraid of Mr. Nour’ brother-
who wears a marine uniform-
and has a huge, huge pistol.

He is not even scared of Mr. Nour-
who owns all of our buildings’ rooms.

He must be a Saint, for sure!
I know, he can read my sister’s English book-
with closed eyes.

I know,
he can take a thousand off a million-
just very-very fast.

And,
and he can do something-
and we won’t have any blackout,
especially on Friday nights.

And he can make the Allah neon,
on the top of the mosque, become bright and green again.

Oh, I like that green neon a lot!
I like all colorful lights!
And I want Ali to have a bike,
with a big, red, flash light;
And I want to sit on the back of his bike,
And turn around the square.

Oh, I like biking around the square so much!
It is so good to go to the park;
And it is so good to have an ice cream;
And it is so good to drink a coke;
And it is so good to go to a movie.
I like all those good things a lot.

I am so little,
and I always get lost in the streets.
But daddy is not little- at all,
And he knows all the streets in our town.

Why he doesn’t do something-
for The One, the red star in my dream, to come here now?

Why he cannot make my dream-come true?
Why nobody does anything?

Oh, this sun is so lazy,
and it is still cold…
But I have cleaned up everywhere,
I have even washed all the stairs,
and I have opened all the windows.

Why my daddy doesn’t dream at all?

It is still cold…
But I have cleaned up everywhere,
I have even washed all the stairs,
and I have opened all the windows.

Someone will come,
Someone is coming,
Someone who walks with me,
Someone who is in my heart,
Someone who hears me breathing,
Someone who sees me dreaming of him.
Someone who hears me talking, talking about him.

I know,
Nobody can catch Him.

I know,
Nobody can jail Him.

I feel that He is growing on the other side of the fence,
I feel that He is singing with all the drops of rains.
and the falling of leaves.

Someone will come,
Maybe, on the day of Firework Show.

Someone will come,
and will bring fresh bread, butter and cream,
and a big pot of soup with lots carrots and potatoes.

Someone will come,
And will fairly divide the park, the coke and the soup,
And will give everybody his share.

I know,
He will give me my share too.

Someone will come,
Someone is coming,
I had a dream.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, January 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Only The Sound Will Last[/FONT]

Why shall I mind, why?
Birds fled to the aquatic side,
The sphere is vertical,
The sphere is vertical-
And move: rise and fall.

At the borders of sight, bright stars rotate.
The earth stands steady, seen from the heights.
All the black holes are altered to confined circuits and links.

And day is an unknown vastness-
to the contracted wits of paper-worms.

Why shall I mind, why?
The route had to cut across my veins,
But, don’t you see?
The cultivation stand of moon doesn’t agree-
with the disposition of defective cells.

In the ambiance of sunrise, only the sound,
only the sound will adhere-
to the active quantum of time.

Why shall I mind, why?

Why this inert bog is there, why?
Isn’t it just to amass the mass of vicious bugs?

Don’t you see?
Those decomposed corpses had shaped
all thoughts of this freezing morgue.
In the dark, infirm creatures veil-
and insects talk.

Why shall I mind, why?

Don’t you see?
These printed sheets will not prolong,
the short life of a shameful thought.

I am progeny of the tree,
I cannot breathe-
in this contaminated air;
And a dying bird-
has just reminded me of the flight.

Don’t you see?
The feat is to reach to the bright gates of Sun.
And it is to surge into the consciousness of lights,
And it is to watch these aged windmills dying out-
in the releasing vacuity of space.

Why should I mind, why?
I milk unripe clusters of wheat with the warmth of my breasts.

Sound, sound, only sound,
Sound of the clear calls of ice to flow;
Sound of the stroke of shines-
on the feminine limb of earth;
Sound of fertilized sense;
Sound of the expanding love;
Sound, sound, sound,
Only the sound will last!

In the land of dwarfs, scales are small,
Why shall I mind, why?

Don’t you see?
I act upon roots of Truth
And the constitution of my soul
overruled the bounded jurisdiction of the blind.

Don’t tell me about the lengthy, wild, howls-
and about the pitiful genitals of animals!

Don’t tell me about the sorry twist of worms-
in the emptiness of limbs!

Legacy of martyred flowers committed me to life,
Legacy of martyred flowers,
Don’t you see?


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Border Walls[/FONT]

Now, again in the silent night,
sequestrant walls, border walls
like plants entwine,
so they may be the guardians of my love.

Now, again the town's evil murmurs,
like agitated schools of fish,
flee the darkness of my extremities.

Now, again windows rediscover themselves
in the pleasure of contact with scattered perfumes,
and trees, in slumberous orchards, shed their bark,
and soil, with its thousand inlets
inhales the dizzy particles of the moon.

***
Now
come closer
and listen
to the anguished beats of my love,
that spread
like the tom-tom of African drums
along the tribe of my limbs.

I, feel.
I know
which moment
is the moment of prayer.

Now stars
are lovers.

In night's refuge,
from innermost breezes, I waft.
In night's refuge, I
tumble madly forth
with my ample tresses, in your palms,
and I offer you the equatorial flowers of this young tropic.

Come with me,
come to that star with me
that is centuries away
from earth's concretion and futile scales,
and no one there
is afraid of light.

On islands adrift upon the waters, I breathe.
I am in search of a share in the expansive sky,
void of the swell of vile thoughts.

Refer with me,
refer with me
to the source of all being,
to the sanctified center of a single origin,
to the moment I was created from you
refer with me,
I am not complete from you.

Now,
on the peaks of my breasts,
doves are flying.
Now,
within the cocoon of my lips,
butterfly kisses are immersed in thoughts of flight.
Now,
the altar of my body
is ready for love's worship.

Refer with me,
I'm powerless to speak
because I love you,
because 'I love you' is a phrase
from the world of futilities
and antiquities and redundancies.
Refer with me,
I'm powerless to speak.

In night's refuge, let me make love to the moon,
let me be filled
with tiny raindrops,
with undeveloped hearts,
with the volume of the unborn,
let me be filled.
Maybe my love
will cradle the birth of another Christ.


Translated by Layli Arbab Shirani


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Rebirth[/FONT]

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.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Later On[/FONT]

My death will arrive one day,
It may be a bright, spring dawn,
It may be a distant winter dusk,
Or perhaps a silent night-
of a foggy, frozen fall.

That day,
gloomy, bright or cloudy, yet,
it will be an empty day-
like all the rest:
a figment of the future,
a picture of the past.

That day,
My eyes like dark holes,
My face like cold marbles;
I’ll be taken away in a swift sleep,
leaving behind my colorful dreams.

My hands will fall on the pallor of a page,
My rhyming thoughts will flee from their cage,
My mind losing to the vibration of this last verse;
And then, there will be no sorrow, no pain-
no rage.


The Earth,
incessantly calling my name,
so they will arrive to place me inside the grave.
Oh, perhaps my lovers, at all midnights-
will put some flowers on my lone place.

Then,
the thick shades of my world-
will be suddenly pulled away:
In the full moon-light, one night-
strangers will read on my rhymes…

They will step in my little room,
a sunny day, in my memory.
Next to my mirror yet, they will find
a lock of my hair,
the signs of life-
my fingerprints.

My soul,
like a sailboat,
It will escape,
free of myself and missing from my corpse.
I will fade away at the borders of sight,
like a vagabond kite,
in an endless flight.

Days so quickly get to weeks,
And weeks become months as fast;
You’ll stare into eyes of the clock,
waiting in vain my letters, my calls.

But then,
My lifeless body will calmly rest-
far from you and the pounds of your heart-
in the voiceless arms of Mother Earth.

Later on,
The sun, the wind and the rain,
will polish the cold stone of my grave:
And lastly I'll be free-
forever free-
from the myths of return,
name and fame.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, July 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]I Will Greet The Sun Again[/FONT]


I am sending-
my warmest greetings to the sun,
and to the tender rivers that streamed in my veins,
and to the raining clouds that forever carried- my endless dreams-
to the other side.

Also,
my greetings go-
to the poplar trees in the yard-
and their sore but graceful aging-
under the comes and goes of sun:
They escorted me in all chilly visits-
of dry times.


And,
I am sending my greetings to the dark crowd of crows:
They always brought me the refreshing scent of nightly crops.

And,
my greetings go to my mother-
who stayed and lived in the mirror,
and looked like my aged face.

And my greetings to this earth, this generous earth-
that the thrill of repeating me, filled its aroused inside- with countless greening seeds.

**&**

I will come, I will come,
I will arrive.

I will arrive:
With my flowing locks:
the winged scent of Earth;
With my eyes:
the bright insight of Night.

And I will bring to you-
all the flowers that I picked-
from the other side of the wall.

I will come, I will come,
I will arrive.

I will arrive!
And then,
all the closed gates will be shattered by Love,
And all the forsaken isles will be invaded by Love,
And there, I will greet everybody who loves.

And, I know:
There will be a girl,
still standing in front of the gates,
those soaked gates-
in the Deluge of Love.
I will greet her again as well.
I will greet her again as well.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, September 2006, Montréal.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Conquest of the Garden[/FONT]


The crow that flew over us and sank-
in the confusion of a vagabond cloud;
The crow that swiftly crossed-
the extent of the sphere-
like a short arrow-
will tell about us-
in the town.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
looked through the oblique crack of the wall-
and saw The Garden.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
reached for the trembling branch of The Tree-
and picked the apple.

Everybody is scared.
Everybody is scared but you and I,
together joined lights,
mirrors and water-
and feared never.

For you and I,
it is not about a frail union of two names-
in the aged pages of a registrar notebook.
It is about my fortunate locks-
and the burning stroke of your kiss.

For you and I,
it is about the imminence of our skins-
in the sacred wellspring of lightly streams,
swiftly sliding -over the waterfalls and the hills.

And,
it is about the fountain’s songs-
its fleeting flight, its short, silvery life.

You and I,
in the core of a darkened night,
in the fluid freshness of forests,
on the peak of shielding mounts,
and in a freezing fearful sea-
asked young, golden eagles-
what we ought to do.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that we pierced-
into the silent dream of Phoenix.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
In the prairies and the plains-
reached to the glittering roots-
of Truth.

Everybody knows.
Now, everybody knows that you and I,
in an endless instant, conquered the entirety of Eternity.

For you and I,
It is not about a shaking whisper in the dark.
It is about Day and its invading spark.
It is about a breeze over the fertile side.
It is about birth, evolution and pride.

It is about burning every futile piece-
in the garnet core of the flames.

And it is about our hands-
that contrived a bridge,
concrete and bright,
over the tear of night.

Come to the turf!
Come to the turf-
and call my name!
Call my name-
with a choral of white lilies-
like a gazelle who calls his mate.

The shades of dusk-
are floating in their veiled sorrow.

And doves,
from the windows of their white tower-
are looking at Earth.

Come to the turf!


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Captive [ Asir ][/FONT]

I want you, yet I know that never
can I embrace you to my heart's content.
you are that clear and bright sky.
I, in this corner of the cage, am a captive bird.

from behind the cold and dark bars
directing toward you my rueful look of astonishment,
I am thinking that a hand might come
and I might suddenly spread my wings in your direction.

I am thinking that in a moment of neglect
I might fly from this silent prison,
laugh in the eyes of the man who is my jailer
and beside you begin life anew.

I am thinking these things, yet I know
that I can not, dare not leave this prison.
even if the jailer would wish it,
no breath or breeze remains for my flight.

from behind the bars, every bright morning
the look of a child smile in my face;
when I begin a song of joy,
his lips come toward me with a kiss.

O sky, if I want one day
to fly from this silent prison,
what shall I say to the weeping child's eyes:
forget about me, for I am captive bird?

I am that candle which illumines a ruins
with the burning of her heart.
If I want to choose silent darkness,
I will bring a nest to ruin.


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Wall[/FONT]

With the cold moments of the past fleeting by,
Your wild eyes contained in your silent demeanor
build a wall around me
And I flee from you to a pathless path.

Until I see valleys on the moons dirt
Until I wash my body in the water fountains of light
In a colorful fog of a warm summer morning
I’ll fill my skirt with lilies from the fields
And hear the roar of roosters from the village rooftops

I’m fleeing from you to the very skirts of the valley
Where I’ll press my feet to the ground
Until they sip dewdrops of grass
I’m fleeing from you to a deserted beach
Where on the lost boulders beneath dark clouds
I’ll learn the twisting dance of the ocean’s hurricane

In a far off sunset, like wild doves
I’ll see fields, mountains, and the sky beneath my feet.
And in the midst of dry bushes I’ll hear
the blissful music of field birds.


I’m fleeing from you until I open the path
To the city of desires
And in that city…
The castle of dreams will have a heavy golden lock

But your eyes with their silent scream
Will blur my vision
Like your dark secrets that
Build a wall around me.

At last one day…
I’ll flee from the illusion of conceiving doubt
And I’ll radiate like a perfume from
the colorful flower of dreams
And I’ll diffuse into the wavy hair of night’s zephyr
And travel to the very beaches of the Sun
In a silent world, within an eternity of calmness.

I’ll gently rock on a bed of golden-colored clouds
That extends hand like rays toward the serene sky
As if playing a song.

It is there where I am happy and free
And I weave memories of this world
Because your bewitching eyes
Find my eyes
And blur my vision
Like your dark secrets
That build a wall around me.


Translation by Pari Kooshesh January 2003


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

Terrestrial Verses

Then
The sun turned cold
And abundance left lands


And in deserts shrubs dried
And in deeps the fish died
And thereafter the earth
Did not receive the dead.
The night in all the pale windows
Was incessantly raging and rebelling
Like a suspicious fancy,
And the roads
Abandoned their ends in the dark.


None thought of love any more
None thought of glory any more
And none
Thought of nothing any more.
In the dens of solitude
Vanity was born,
The blood smelled of opium and hemp,
The pregnant women
Gave birth to headless babies
And the shameful cradles
Took refuge in the graves.
What a bitter and dark time!
Bread had defeated
The miraculous force of prophecy,
Poor hungry prophets
Escaped from divine trysts
And the lost lambs of Jesus
Did not hear the dirge of a shepherd
In the wonder of the desert,
As if in the eyes of the mirrors
Motions, colours and pictures
Reversely were reflected
And as if a sacred shining halo
was burning like an umbrella ablaze
Over the heads of the despised clowns
And over the ugly faces of prostitutes.
The swamps of alcohol
Giving off a poisonous bitter vapor
Drew into their depth
The motionless mass of intellectuals
And the noxious mice
chewed up the gilded pages of books
Preserved in ancient chests.
The sun was dead
The sun was dead, and tomorrow
Was a vague lost concept
In children's mind.



They were drawing
The weirdness of this obsolete word
With a black stain
In their homework.

People,
The lapsed bunch of people
Dejected, dumbfounded and feeble
Were wandering about in exile
Under the evil weight of their corpses
And the painful desire for murder
Was inflating in their hands



Sometimes an insignificant spark
All of a sudden, from within
Shattered this silent lifeless society;
They would attack one another
Men would cut each other's throat
With a dagger
And in a bed of blood
They would sleep with
Immature girls.



They were obsessed with terror
And the scary sense of sinfulness
Had paralyzed
Their blind and stupid souls.
Always during the execution
When the hanging rope
Pushed out
A convict's convulsive eyes
They would be lost in thought
And their old and weary nerves
Would ache of a lustful fancy,
But you would ever see
These small murderers
Standing
And staring at
The constant fall of fountains.


Perhaps still
Behind the crushed eyes
Amidst the chill
There had remained
Something faint and half-alive
In whose breathless effort
Wanted to believe
In the innocence of the song of waters


Perhaps , but what an infinite vacuum!
The sun was dead
And nobody knew
The name of that sad dove
Which has escaped the hearts
Is faith.
O Imprisoned Voice
Can the majesty of thy despair
Ever penetrate into light
Through this disgusting night?
O Imprisoned Voice
The last voice of voices ...


Forough Farrokhzad

 

[*JujU*]

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]My Beloved[/FONT]

My beloved,
with his bare bold body-
rose over his legs,
fearless like death.

On his firm face,
an array of fine lines-
was tailored by the revolt-
of his limbs.

My beloved surely belongs-
to a faded clan.

In the depths of his eyes, it seems-
A Tartar is constantly on guard-
for the advent of knights.

In brightness of his teeth, it seems-
a primal man- is patiently waiting-
for cornering a prey.

My beloved is like the earth-
in his blunt fated air,
in his concrete, cruel rule.

My beloved is wildly free.
My beloved is like a whole instinct-
In the core of a dark isolated isle.

My beloved is originally estranged,
like veiled gods, like lone monks.
My beloved is a male from the ancient eras,
and from the natural age of beauty.

By his tread, he awakens-
the innocent sense of youth.

With his aura, he reminds-
the fond flavor of mythical tales.

He loves with such a faith-
all bits of life, all tads of soil
all laughs and all the sorrows.

He loves with such a faith-
The void roads of the parish, the green veins of the trees
the slight smell of soap, the fresh taste of milk.

My beloved surely belongs-
to a faded clan.

My beloved,
He is a natural man.
And in this wicked wonderland
He must hide away.

My beloved,
He is a simple man.
And like the last rest of the vast past beliefs,
I hide him always away,
in the wake of warmth of my breasts.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, September 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad