Had the Sky Been Blue
My friend,
sitting on my little shoulders,
Iranian, Bosnian, Iraqi, Afghan….
my friend
for the same of your smile
my shoulders are born
every morning early
to remove your wounds
although they have shut your smile
with gunpowder
perhaps in the absence of the first war,
second war
third or the last one.
My friend
when you let your silent fly and you spoke
at a distance, the size of one thousand part of the ant’s wing
then
all the bombs in the world will grew silent
in front of you.
we all know
you are alive beyond the natural strength of man
when in the plan
you are returning home
tired, wounded and abandoned.
Which home are you returning?
When the sky is empty of peace
and the prevailing war
is tearing away your newborn’s eye
until the end of his life
I grieve for your future
I grieve for the future.
I am tired
but
I worry for your future…
I draw a nucleus from the atoms of wounds
your body is thin
tomorrow
tomorrow
I will get my shoulders born wider
for the same of your smile
had the sky been blue.
sitting on my little shoulders,
Iranian, Bosnian, Iraqi, Afghan….
my friend
for the same of your smile
my shoulders are born
every morning early
to remove your wounds
although they have shut your smile
with gunpowder
perhaps in the absence of the first war,
second war
third or the last one.
My friend
when you let your silent fly and you spoke
at a distance, the size of one thousand part of the ant’s wing
then
all the bombs in the world will grew silent
in front of you.
we all know
you are alive beyond the natural strength of man
when in the plan
you are returning home
tired, wounded and abandoned.
Which home are you returning?
When the sky is empty of peace
and the prevailing war
is tearing away your newborn’s eye
until the end of his life
I grieve for your future
I grieve for the future.
I am tired
but
I worry for your future…
I draw a nucleus from the atoms of wounds
your body is thin
tomorrow
tomorrow
I will get my shoulders born wider
for the same of your smile
had the sky been blue.
Translated by M. Alexandrian
Oil Ailment
And now I know what ails the world: Power
Humility dies on its very own emaciated neck
Even cockroaches rise
Against the sanctity of your body
The world is sated with virus.
Cover my body,
O earthly globe of bread!
When spiders became monkeys
They uprooted my eyes
And I, a woman,
I am a toothless tortoise of leather.
O you refiners of humankind!
I did not get permission to sing hospital songs
For your moonstricken eyes.
Yet, sing I will!
I have been slaughtered in the kosher custom,
Preserved in the giant freezers of Power.
In the giant freezers of Power
I am cut from Adam to the last messenger.
My intestines have the clench of your multiple claws.
Oh homeless homeland!
The roads twist in the misery of pain.
Who is he, the one who tolls the bell of all viruses?
Who is the one who puts a date on our homework
And appoints incidents?
They are reversed,
Yes, reversed.
My girls
Are reversed tortoises
And my men
Have succeeded only in taking their sister’s hand by the teeth.
O equator belt of human loneliness!
Humor with the blood of a thousand corpses?
No!
I am cut down; I have been cut from it all.
Perhaps my mother’s masterpiece was this blossomed breast of mine
In the mouth of an open mirror.
Oh what a masterpiece
And what a taste,
That cockroaches do,
I wouldn’t know, or don’t become
Eternal on a young mirror?
How fearful it is
To compose a poem in delirium
While random viruses of Power
Set fire to your today and tomorrow
In front of your very eyes!
Hello hospitalized Spring!
Your moonward eyes awaited me.
The answer to your question wanders among the morgues.
I am never scared! Never!
I splash a succulent sneeze on your thousand year old sanctity.
My Power is viral,
One that poxes the faces of world Talibans.
Why do they not fear the flow of all waters?
The flow of all voices?
With a few issued statements,
Just a few statements, you can no longer, no longer…
Neighbor means mutual pain
And I stand naked between water and earth
Come, set me on fire or as your female slaves
Iron blaze my lips
No, you have come a lot A lot and in numbers
Hello.
Hello hospitalized Spring!
Stained dark curtains, stained
On oil
And our mutual neighbor has been robbed from her cushion.
I lie on the oil without a cushion
And the odor of the oil makes me nauseous
Ah, if there were no oil and wine
With what madness, what ardor, could I compose a poem?
I have drawn a curtain between the five beds of the world.
Ailed neighbors and Taliban women sit around me.
They no longer mourn any death.
Perhaps a thousand Afghan mothers
Have set out to scream this smother
As I become a river, a river I say
And flow between the five drowsy beds
O nurse! Keep the lights on
This river has a mission
A mission for all words
A mission with the emaciated neck of this humble one.
Call my nurse,
And take me,
Take me
Take me away from my Muslim neighbors
My dread is no longer blood clotted
My dread is no longer death
But the return of Spring to Autumn.
I burn from fever
And the month of May laughs
I wish there were no teachers in the charter of existence
And my heads and tails thwarted poem
Was just a red flower on those five drowsy beds
O masterwork of Nature!
You made the roof and I made the walls.
I draw the curtain between hatred.
Between hatred,
When trousers robbed mothers
Shriek out sleep,
A sleep with no cushion.
Ah…
They no longer weep
No longer laugh
They sobbingly laugh out the oil
The stolen trousers, they laugh them out with a sob.
We, ill and defeated
And the general surgeon narrows his eyes
As though there has never been a flag on any patient’s desk.
Tonight, I shall take a mirror
To the mothers of robbed trousers.
How broken is this sun, how broken!
I fall, fall apart from its fall.
O human misery,
When, just when would you let go of the mirror?
Translation from Persian into English:
Maryam Ala Amjadi
No comments:
Post a Comment