I
prune the foliage of words
for imagination
to grow greener |
|
|
Not
a lark's voice, nor a rose
not a tree to spread
its shade like a rug
nor a stream
to sing through the heart of stone
This tedious path wears me out |
| Chapter
Fifteen |
Tehran,
1996 |
|
Through
the forest's frost
came the sound
of beasts
He reached the door, knocked and moaned:
Save me, O Blue Angle! |
| The
Beginning |
Tehran,
1997 |
|
This
season begins with your voice
This rock, this moss, this brook, this weed
This road-bend that reaches the moon at night
This scent of the rose running slow on the bridge
This branch that blooms upon the pomegranate's branch |
| The
Feast of Hunger |
Tehran,
1998 |
|
At
the window he set
his heart with a vase
for a prince to come by
and bear her in his chariot
To the feast of dreams
A miserable son of the poor came
riding upon frugal shoes
picked her up
and bore her away
to the feast of hunger |
|
|
Here
he sat
just on this very chair
on the table burned
a candle, just like this one
behind the glasses of yearning and gaze
a stack of poems
behind the shawl
Behind the glass passes a dense fog
here he sat
just on this very chair |
| From
Afar |
Carlstadt,
2000 |
|
Came
your voice
like a bird landing on a bough
In the frosty land
came your warm voice, melted my heart,
from afar
I kiss you |
|
|
I
wake
with snow, with deer
with a boat yawning
on the edge of a shore |
|
|
Though
I'm winter and have only snow
I am the next door neighbor of spring
Like snow I'm all eager to someday
in a flower's warm embrace pass away |
|
|
Riding
my gaze
I flew out the window
to a hill with snow on the slopes
and much to speak
It was cold-
I lit a small fire
saw you there in the shades
the world suspended within a drop
Riding my gaze
I came back |
