Translated from the original Persian into English by the poet
The Clock Cell
Something happens to die
And the sunlight which has been soaking is wet and obscure
If I carry on the lines
The frozen object which has been captured in your hands will drop
Otherwise, the day has come to an end.
Void
When I get home; staring at all those cubical shapes;
Standstill current of water
And the sunlight which is never damp
On the blank sheets of writing
bursting into tears over old sheets on my bed.
The elements
Its essence has been painted by my blood
The rain of cats and dogs on my field
The moon is encompassing the land!
Here with the frostbite on the iron post,
I left the time on the river bank
Time was a whim slipped away from my fingers
The moments have been cleaned and cleared.
The wall has turned blue
Me and the black gown
Have taken the flow of the river.
It's a calf death breast-fed.
What is it?
Sediments on a neutral background
It could be in a different colour
It's been many days since I started walking on the rope
The creased moon is hanging down the ceiling.
Blizzard
A flimsy stone
The frostbite on the window glass
The bridge has fallen down
Silence on a metal tape
Ending to a blind full stop.
The Flintstone
Block No.1:
A whole nation has created the kindling
Which owes you desperately
But it hasn’t been specified
Whether it’s the flint stone
Or A fire storm?
Block No.2:
A piece of my happiness is in debt with the flint stone
You’ve turned to the rocks
But it’s for the flint stone.
Block No.3:
I’m in debt with the flint stone
The whole world is in debt with the flint stone
Block No.4:
It has cast a spell
For all your desires
Behind the railing.
Block No.5:
I’m the mother of this flint stone
I’ve nourished it
I’ve shed tears on it
If the world is on fire
I’m the one to blame.
Block No.6:
I’ve betrayed the heaven above
God is disabled by it.
Block No.7:
And since then people have taken the vow of silence, …
'Dating Noah’s Son'/ 'Making coffee to Run a Crime Story'
The Last Street of Tehran
At the airport;
Now what I have inside my fist
Is a tight piece of land
Barely exceeds the size of a single palm of my hands
Sliding into the slippery sun
The Sun is not on the speaking term with us!
The long Dream of moving fingers
Is rooted from the Lout Desert
Stiffened through my teeth
Blurred into the whirlwind
Twisting, surrounding the sandy moor
Landing towards the back alley right in the vicinity of my home.
Hey, are you putting together the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
A short cruise, the precise size of a palm
My fortune has been doomed as lengthy as my hand;
The lengthy mass grave
To put the longest night of the year to sleep.
Dreams have left our eyelids
Lowering its anchor on the sides of the pool
Somebody has lost his torn-up mouth
Little puny scanty thing, …!
Hey, are you putting together the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
Pieces are being scissored
The shattered pieces on my land are the letters of my ID
Fallen to the state of oblivion
Amnesia!
Bumping over the puddles, every other
Stretched along the desert
My mum's sighs have been jailed
And I'm losing her footprints.
Hey, are you putting the pieces of my face together to make me laugh?
Never ever!
Won't go back to the last avenue
What I left for you is a single shoe
To put on and follow me!
The weirdest skyline
Navigation exceeds 3 feet
The size of my right palm!
Suppose That I’m Inevitable
Suppose that I'm inevitable
Even the veins of my right hand
Cross you from the drafts.
On my smooth nails
The breeze
Which is not from the sky
Is curving you
Either the veins of my right hand
Is running short
On my pulse.
Rolled along my fingers
Vanished
Not repeated for ever
For the second.
I'm a half
Since the first.
The veins of my neck cross you all.
If the warmth of my ten fingers
Seized on your torn pieces of breath
All is over
With the dead-end alleys
all in oblivion.
Like a Hanged Pitcher
Like a hanged pitcher,
No drink is pouring off me
It's natural to get numbed gradually.
Pig-headed seashells!
This boasting sky,
Is an anchor
which has fallen on my lap
This dizzy sky!
The moon's been cleared
A shadow's coming after me
Barefooted on my dreams
You used to run!
Enjoyed? !
Numbed? !
All my veins are connected to this land...
Like a hanged pitcher
Joyful of this sky
One day a huge whale swallowed it as a whole.
And it was over!
The Gulf was over!
You waved hands.
Like a hanged pitcher,
It's simple!
I lost the game
And gambled away...
Tehran Cuddled in My Arms
Tehran in my arms
At the agony of death
In my bosom
Is an aged bull
Which is mooing
Yet tamed and dull
Rubbing its figure on my hair.
But tomorrow,
It 'll be a dead body
And the dustman will collect it
I'm a refuge of this kicking bitch dog
And I'll leave it to God...
Unripe Greengages
I’m unripe greengages
It was a necessity
That I was just born to be a flavour.
Chess-like City, Tehran
You see the city in my veins fast asleep
Like the obscure web over my brain
As if destroyed the fragments of my memory.
In the morning things were perfect
Just a watchdog which is penetrating incessantly into the eyelids
Things for sure were perfect in the morning.
Signals, signals, and parasites bombarded the satellite TV!
Tehran,
Like a white sheet, stagnant on the washing hanging
Still, things are perfect,
Waves moving around me;
This wretched scorching hot sultry weather
I'm the only driver turning into the highways
Railings like parallel lines keeping us all together
Is the turning for ever?
Lack of iron and minerals,
Mercury as fast as death is shadowing the table frame now
Temperature's just dropped!
Tehran is the city in my veins fast asleep!
Railings are putting us into sleep
The ruins of the city have been left over the frame.
Done with your breakfast?
Shall we exit from the right?
The prism, turning and turning into the wind
As if our torn-up parched lips and the garments in the whirlwind
By watching I feel pins and needles in my arms
The chessboard you made
With all its dead bodies,
Surfing over the waters and waters of the metropolis!
Knotweed
I've turned to an annual plant, shielded and armed, from the genus of hollyhocks
and broad leaves
Whole five-thousand-year history is turning over my head
It was the moment that you were buried with no shroud
And I'm the weeds and icicles of this land, …
Had been climbing over the flames, it was a black ladder, burning my sole feet
It was the moment that I had chopped my heart, you had sucked my blood in
that woundless bowl
Had been growing like a wildflower, had been living for millions of years
In Syriac over my body:
Nail-shaped herbs had written some letters.
I'm the genius of thorns with wounded heels of thousands of miles travelling in
the oasis
My blistered feet, weary and my parched lips
Shattered by the mountain ranges I had been fighting with my claws
My roots are extended with the fluent liquid in the vessels
Lilacs had grown over my arms and now I've turned to the ivy as if burning in the
fire
I left my name on the land I stepped, …
And who's this weeping human child, lamenting two thousand years in my arms?
Still weeping? ! Always weeping? !
I've been raising this child for six thousand years
I've grown this Persian hero to send him to the battlefield
Breastfed him
And he has grown out of my eyes
This extreme light which has blinded me….
The Angels of the Frame
1
Many years have passed since the day,
I looked into a mirror, saw a wrinkled face.
I've been disclosed to the bulging sands of my bed.
2
Aeons of breath account for the many veins in my atrium.
3
The bull I breast-fed for many years
And I've submerged into the frame.
4
I knew the justifications were hard,
Hard as against the current of water.
No news from the ambiguous points
something uncommon.
It can't be justified by natural rules,
many years we've been tangled on it.
5
This usurped land is a part of all buried treasure islands
No finger points in any direction.
Lost in the dead-end alleys
Tracing images without a compass.
6
Horse pounding pulse sing endlessly in my blood.
My kinsmen of horses…
Blood-line linked as to rays of a circle
like roots of a tree growing deep on the roof.
7
You can't stop the hands of the clock.
You can't come back to the broken minutes.
The days have been arranged one after another.
The knights have left the game one after another.
8
There was a straw mat where you fell asleep.
I became numb, quite used to the stillness of the house.
9
Was something supposed to get away from the core
to join us?
A century has passed and we still live in this house.
10
Dimensions have shifted
Not exclusive to the roof
The letters approved us as the residents of the house
They ran away as the convicts
And we got used to the standstill.
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