Spirit

Flock by flock they go,
Candles in their hands,
With begrudged hands that strike and,
With no time to spare.

Theses butterflies that come dancing,
From the darkness of the sky,
To the fine blue earth.

The Narratives of My Wooden Bed

Let me talk of my wooden bed,
Who has covered himself with me,
Who has overflowed himself with me,
That is void of this room,
And sometimes me whirling around this map.

I feel,
The hands of time are traveling fast,
And with them they take us,
If the earth did not spin,
Then we people would have been static.

I tell of the china of this wall
And the Africa of color,
Of myself,
I am stooped over the hands of time.

And a map has risen within me,
And still my body does not reach the earth.

These days – only carpets reach the door,
The door - opens to my - outside.

Room is a word that has a ceiling.
It doesn’t have the moon,
Which you can only see through the crack.

My father says.
(We are the ashes of a generation that has gone with the wind)
But I am in love with the past youth of a woman.
She has eyes called the Persian gulf,
And this has nothing to do with this room,
For example,
As soon as she wants to grab me from this bed,
I’ll be a canoe that travels on your eyes,
And within this room that is far from the world,
I am a seaman,
Who pirates tears.
Do you want me to bring you the eyes of the moon?


traslated from Farsi by: Mahnaz Badihian

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