Forough Farrokhzād: The Window

(http://foroughfarrokhzad.tripod.com/id56.html)
no copyright infringement intended

If you come to my home,
Bring me a light
And a nook
From which I may watch the crowding of the glad lane.
(Forough Farrokhzād, The Gift, the blog of Cizdabedar)

There are two opposite universes in the poetry of Forough Farrokhzād, I think, and each one plays ambiguously, as the relationship of the poet with each of the two worlds is ambiguous. The inner space, offering intimacy and imposing limitations. The outer space, desired while challenging. And the feeling that a light and a nook would suffice, to stay inside while dreaming the big adventure of open roads.

I found in the anthology of Mid-East contemporary literature (Tablet and Pen, edited by Reza Aslan) another poem of Forough Farrokhzād: The Window, again in the rendering of Sholeh Wolpé. I would offer you here another English rendering, of Leila Farjami. A window at the border between the two universes, a window would suffice, to remain inside and to look through it, resembling a well's ring reaching the earth at the finiteness of its heart.

One window is sufficient

One window for beholding

One window for hearing

One window

resembling a well's ring

reaching the earth at the finiteness of its heart

and opening towards the expanse of this repetitive blue kindness

one window filing the small hands of loneliness

with nocturnal benevolence

of the fragrance of wondrous stars

and thereof,

one can summon the sun

to the alienation of geraniums.

One window will suffice me.

I come from the homeland of dolls

from beneath the shades of paper-trees

in the garden of a picture book

from the dry seasons of impotent experiences in friendship and love

in the soil-covered alleys of innocence

from the years of growing pale alphabet letters

behind the desks of the tuberculous school

from the minute that children could write stone

on the blackboard

and the frenzied starlings would fly away

from the ancient tree.

I come from the midst of carnivorous plant roots

and my brain is still overflowed

by a butterfly's terrifying shriek

crucified with pins

onto a notebook.

When my trust was suspended from the fragile thread of justice

and in the whole city

they were chopping up my heart's lanterns

when they would blindfold me

with the dark handkerchief of Law

and from my anxios temples of desire

fountains of blood would squirt out

when my life had become nothing

nothing

but the tic-tac of a clock,

I discovered

I must

must

must love,

insanely.

One window will suffice me

one window to the moment of awareness

observance

and silence.

now,

the walnut sapling

has grown so tall that it can interpret the wall

by its youthful leaves.

Ask the mirror

the redeemer's name.

Isn't the shivering earth beneath your feet lonelier than you?

the prophets brought the mission of destruction to our century

aren't these consecutive explosions

and poisonous clouds

the reverberation of the sacred verses?

You,

comrad,

brother,

confidant,

when your reach the moon

write the history of flower massacres.

Dreams always plunge down from their naive height

and die.

I smell the four-petal clover

which has grown on the tomb of archaic meanings.

Wasn't the woman

buried in the shroud of anticipation and innocence,

my youth?

Will I step up the stairs of curiosity

to greet the good God who strolls on the rooftop?

I feel that time has passed

I feel that moment is my share of history's pages

I feel that desk is a feigned distance

between my tresses

and the hands of this sad stranger.

Talk to me

What else would the one offering the kindness of a live flesh want from

you?

but the understanding of the sensation of existence.

Talk to me

I am in the window's refuge

I have a relationship with the Sun.

translated by Leila Farjami       
(http://www.forughfarrokhzad.org/selectedworks/selectedworks8.asp)

(Forough Farrokhzād)

(Reza Aslan)

Forough Farrokhzād: Sin

(http://voiceseducation.org/content/forough-farrokhzad)
no copyright infringement intended

I bought a couple of days ago an anthology of Middle East contemporary literature (Tablet and Pen), edited by Reza Aslan, and as I was going back home I started browsing it, opening the pages more or less at random. The first author that I saw there was Forough Farrokhzād. It was a superb surprise for me, I love her poetry. She was present in the anthology with a few poems, and the first one was Sin, in a rapturous English rendering done by Sholeh Wolpé. I found then this rendering also on the web, together with two other versions: another English translation done by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, and a French one (part of a blog named Carnets de Poésie de Guess Who). I would like to give you here the whole poem, stanza by stanza, each one in all three renderings:

I have sinned a rapturous sin
In a warm, enflamed embrace,
Sinned in a pair of vindictive arms,
arms violent and ablaze.
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure
wrapped in an embraced, warm and fiery
I sinned in a pair of arms
that were vibrant, virile, violent.

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

J'ai pêché, pêché dans le plaisir,
dans des bras chauds et enflammés,
j'ai pêché dans des bras de fer,
brûlants et rancuniers.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

In that quiet vacant dark
I looked into his mystic eyes,
found such longing that my heart
fluttered impatient in my breast.
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion
I looked into his eyes brimming with mystery
my heart throbbed in my chest all too excited
by the desire glowing in his eyes.

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

Dans ce lieu solitaire, sombre et muet,
ses yeux remplis de mystère j'ai regardé,
mon coeur dans ma poitrine, impatiemment a tremblé,
des supplications de désirs de ses yeux.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

In that quiet vacant dark
I sat beside him punch-drunk,
his lips released desire on mine,
grief unclenched my crazy heart.
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion
as I sat next to him all scattered inside
his lips poured lust on my lips
and I left behind the sorrows of my heart.

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

Dans ce lieu solitaire, sombre et muet,

je me suis assise près de lui, agitée,

sa lèvre, l'envie, sur mes lèvres a versée,

de la tristesse de mon coeur fou, je me suis libérée.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

I poured in his ears lyrics of love
"O my life, my lover it's you I want
Life-giving arms, it's you I crave,
Crazed lover, for you I thirst."
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

I whispered in his ear these words of love:

“I want you, mate of my soul

I want you, life-giving embrace

I want you, lover gone mad”

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

A l'oreille, l'histoire d'amour, je lui ai racontée,

je te veux mon amant,

je te veux, toi dont les bras sont vivifiants,

je te veux, toi mon amoureux fou.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

Lust enflamed his eyes,
Red wine trembled in the cup,
My body, naked and drunk,
quivered softly on his breast.
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

Desire surged in his eyes

red wine swirled in the cup

my body surfed all over his

in the softness of the downy bed.

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

Le désir alluma le feu dans son regard,

le vin rouge dansa dans le verre,

mon corps sur le lit doux,

librement trembla sur sa poitrine.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

I have sinned a rapturous sin
beside a body quivering and spent.
I do not know what I did O God,
In that quiet vacant dark.
(Sholeh Wolpé version)

I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure

next to a body now limp and languid

I know not what I did, God

in that dim and quiet place of seclusion.

(Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak version)

J'ai pêché dans le plaisir,

près d'un corps tremblant et évanoui,

Dieu! Je ne sais ce que j'ai fait,

dans ce lieu solitaire, sombre et muet.

(version from Carnets de Poésie)

I tried also to get a Romanian crib, here it is:

Am păcătuit, şi păcatul mi-a fost dulce desfătare
Într-o imbrăţişare care mă dogorea,
Într-o pereche de braţe care se răzbunau,
Arzând in flăcări sălbatice.

În întunericul acela ascuns şi tăcut
Am privit in ochii lui tainici
Şi am văzut atâta dorinţă
Încât inima imi tremura de nerăbdare.

În întunericul acela ascuns şi tăcut
Eram alături de el ca trăsnită,
Buzele lui işi slobozeau in mine dorinţa,
Mâhnirile dispăreau din inima-mi nebună.

Şi-am turnat in urechile lui cuvinte de dragoste
"Viaţa mea, iubitul meu, pe tine te vreau
Îmbrăţisarea ta, pe ea o aştept fara astâmpăr,
Iubire nebună, de tine sunt insetată."

Patima i-a aprins ochii,
Vinul roşu dănţuia in pahar,
Trupul meu, despuiat şi beat,
Peste pieptul lui fremăta.

Am păcătuit, şi păcatul mi-a fost dulce desfătare,
Alături de un trup fremătând şi terminat,
Nici nu ştiu ce-am făcut, Doamne,
În întunericul acela ascuns şi tăcut.


(Forough Farrokhzād)

(Reza Aslan)

Forough Farrokhzād

Forough Farrokhzād (1935 - 1967)
فروغ فرخزاد
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Foroogh.gif)
no copyright infringement intended

One of the most influential poets in contemporary Iranian culture.

• The House is Black (1963)
• Meditating a Movie
• Journeying with Kiarostami: The Wind Will Carry Us 
• The Wind Will Carry Us, again 
• The Cold Season 
• The Gift / Frontier Walls 
• Another Birth 
• Sin
• The Window 
• O Poezie de Forough Farrokhzād

(Iranian Film and Poetry)

Forough Farrokhzād: The House Is Black (1963)

خانه سیاه است, فیلمی از فروغ فرخزاد (Khaneh Siah Ast - The House Is Black): it was the only movie made by Forough Farrokhzad. A documentary of 20 minutes length; actually it is a documentary only at the first level of meaning: the disturbing images from a leper colony are meditated in verses that partner what's flowing on the screen. Fragments from Psalms, from Koran, from her own poetry. And her stanzas, sometimes in sync with the images, sometimes in counterpoint, always challenging the versets from the sacred books. One of the greatest poets of the twentieth century, that's what I believe Forough Farrokhzad is.

This movie is a cinematic poem: empathy for the extreme suffering, desolation that we cannot escape from our condition, and, in the same time, awe in face of the beauty of creation.

I think the key of the movie is done by two verses:

Who is this in hell
Praising you, O Lord?

The hell is also part of the world; and it is ultimately beautiful because world is beautiful.

This is extraordinary here in the movie: the subtle impulse to see the Universe as beautiful in all its dimensions, even in its ugliest expressions - to see the splendor of the human condition, even in its most horrible shape.

Or maybe the verses tell us something slightly different: as they are in turn fearful, desolate, bitter, pessimistic, sarcastic against God and praising God, it is here the honesty and the courage of the poet to recognize having all these contradictory feelings. And this speaks indeed about the splendor of the human condition: to encompass everything, to assume all contradictions, to be their sovereign - as the Universe is.

(video by Medyascope.tv)

(Forough Farrokhzād)

Meditating a Movie

The House Is Black, the unique film made by Forough Farrokhzad: I intend to write in near future some sensed words about it. The English subtitles are very difficult to read, sometimes it's white text over white background: versets from the Bible and Koran, and also verses written by Forough Farrokhzad. I succeeded to copy most of them and I tried to translate some in Romanian: in the movie Forough Farrokhzad is reciting the verses in parallel with the flow of images, sometimes in sync, sometimes in counterpoint. Here is what I got:

The English version:

I said if I had wings of a dove
I would fly away and be at rest.
I would go far away and take refuge in the desert
I would hasten my escape
From the windy storm and tempest.
For I have seen misery
And wickedness on Earth
The Universe is pregnant with our sorrows
And has given birth to time.

How would I escape from your face?
Where would I go from your essence?
If I hang on to the wings
Of the morning breeze.
And reside in the deep of the sea,
Your hand will still weigh on me.
You have made me drunk with indecision.

How awesome are your deeds.
I speak of the bitterness of my soul.
From my silent screams all day long.


Remember that my life is wind
I have become the pelican of the desert.
Out of the ruins
And like a sparrow I am
Sitting alone on the roof.

I am poured out like water
My eyelid is the shadow of death
As those who have long dead.

Leave me, leave me,
For my days are but numbered.
Leave me before I set out
For the land of no return.
The land of infinite darkness.

O God, don’t entrust the life
Of your dove to the wild beast.
O God, remember that my life is wind
And you have given me a time of idleness
And around me a song of happiness.

The sound of the windmill and the brightness
Of the light have vanished
Lucky are those who are harvesting now
And their hands are picking sheaves of wheat

Let’s listen to the soul in the remote desert
One who sighs and stretches his hands out saying,
Alas, my wounds have numbed my spirit.

O, the time-forgotten one,
Dressing yourself in red and wearing golden ornaments
Anointing your eyes with coal
Remember you have made yourself beautiful in vain,
For a song in the remote desert
And your friends who have denigrated you

Alas, for the day is fading,
The evening shadows are stretching
Our being, like a cage full of birds,
Is filled with moans of captivity.
And none of us knows how long he will last

The harvest season passed,
The summer season will come to an end,
And we did not find deliverance.
Like doves we cry for justice…
And there is none.
We wait for light
And darkness reigns.


O, overrunning river driven by the force of love,
Flow to us, flow to us.

And my Romanian translation:

Mi-am zis ca de-as avea aripi de porumbel
As zbura departe, la loc de odihna,
As ajunge hat departe si mi-as lua de adapost pustia.
Mi-as grabi scaparea
Din calea vijeliior si furtunilor.
Pentru ca mizerie am vazut,
Mizerie si netrebnicie, pe Pamant.
Universul era fecundat de rautatile noastre
Si a nascut timpul, sa le induram.

Cum as putea sa scap de fata ta?
Cum as putea sa ma indepartez de esenta ta?
De m-as atarna de aripile zefirului de dimineata
Si mi-as gasi salas in adancurile marii
Mana ta inca m-ar cantari.
M-ai faurit astfel incat sa umblu beat, sa fiu imbatat de nehotarare.

Aminteste-ti ca viata imi este prada bataii vantului
Am devenit pelicanul desertului
Departe, dincolo de zidiri daramate.
Si ca o vrabie stau singuratec pe acoperis,
Sunt varsat precum apa ce o arunci,
Pleoapele mele sunt ca umbra mortii
Asemenea celor care au murit de mult.
Lasa-ma, caci zilele mele sunt numarate,
Lasa-ma, inainte sa o pornesc
Spre taramul de unde nu este intoarcere,
Taramul intunecimii nemarginite.

O, Dumnezeule, nu incredinta viata porumbelului tau fiarei salbatice
O Dumnezeule, aminteste-ti ca viata mea in bataia vantului este.
Tu mi-ai daruit vreme de zabava,
Si pus-ai imprejurul meu un cantec de fericire.
Dar sunetul morii si stralucirea luminii au disparut.
Fericiti aceia ce acum isi culeg roadele,
Ale caror maini impletesc snopi de grau.

Sa ascultam sufletul celui aflat in desertul de deaprte,
Cel ce suspina si-si ridica mainile zicand,
Vai mie, ranile mi-au amortit cugetul.

O, timp uitat de demult,
Imbracandu-te in rosu si cu podoabe de aur,
Miruind-ti ochii cu carbune
Adu-ti aminte ca ti-ai ingrijit frumusetea zadarnic
Pentru un cantec doar, din desertul de departe
Si pentru prietenii ce s-au lepadat de tine.

Vai mie, caci ziua sw stinge,
Si umbrele inserarii isi arata taria.
Iar fiinta noastra, precum ccolivia plina d epasari,
umpluta este de gemete de robie
Si nimeni dintre noi nu stie cat va mai dura,
Antimpul culesului roadelor a trecut,
Anotimpul verii va ajunge si el la capat
Iar noi nu vom gasi izbavire
Ne cerem precum porumbeii dreptate
Dar nu exista.
Asteptam lumina,'Iar intunericul domneste.

O, fluviu preaplin, impins de forta iubirii,
Revarsa-te spre noi.

(Forough Farrokhzād)

The Wind Will Carry Us, again

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.


listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.


O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will carry us
the wind will carry us.

(Forough Farrokhzad)

I wrote about an year ago about Bad ma ra khahad bord (The Wind Will Carry Us), made by Kiarostami in 1999.

The Wind Will Carry Us: the trailer
(video by Christos Iosifidis)

As I recognized, within the movie, verses from Iranian modern poets (as well as from Omar Khayyám), I copied them here.

It is a movie on multiple levels of meaning, and one of them is poetry. The title of the movie is the title of a famous poem created by Forough Farrokhzad.

It is more than inter-textuality here: it's about a trans-generic flow of sensibility. The visual imagery of Kiarostami's movies, the word imagery of modern Iranian poets come from the same source and are fed by the same well.

I started with the English version of the poem by Forough Farrokhzad, I will end with the French version, of a great beauty, and I'll come soon with my thoughts about Ten, another well-known movie of Kiarostami. I found also Ten on youTube. It's a great joy. Augmented by my finding of 10 on Ten on youTube!

Neshami 

Near the tree,
Is a garden-line greener than God's dream
Where love is bluer than the feathers of honesty.

(Sohrab Sepehri)

The Gift 

I speak of the end of night
I speak
of the end of darkness
And of the end of night.
O kind one,
If you come to my home,
Bring me a light
And a nook
From which I may watch the crowding of the glad lane.

(Forough Farrokhzad)

They promise of houries in heaven
But I would say wine is better
Take the present to the promises
A drum sounds melodious from apart

(Omar Khayyám)

Dans ma nuit, si brève, hélas
Le vent a rendez-vous avec les feuilles.
Ma nuit si brève est remplie de l'angoisse dévastatrice
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
De ce bonheur, je me sens étranger.
Au désespoir je suis accoutumée.
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
Là, dans la nuit, quelque chose se passe
La lune est rouge et angoissée.
Et accrochés à ce toit
Qui risque de s'effondrer à tout moment,
Les nuages, comme une foule de pleureuses,
Attendent l'accouchement de la pluie,
Un instant, et puis rien.
Derrière cette fenêtre,
C'est la nuit qui tremble
Et c'est la terre qui s'arrête de tourner.
Derrière cette fenêtre, un inconnu s'inquiète
pour moi et toi.
Toi, toute verdoyante,
Pose tes mains - ces souvenirs ardents -
Sur mes mains amoureuses
Et confie tes lèvres, repues de la chaleur de la vie,
Aux caresses de mes lèvres amoureuses
Le vent nous emportera!
Le vent nous emportera!

(I'm in the Mood for Kiarostami)

(Forough Farrokhzād)

Journeying with Kiarostami: The Wind Will Carry Us

scene from the movie
(video by yoyochey)

I had already read a lot about the movie of Kiarostami, The Wind Will Carry Us, when I watched it for the first time. You could say I was prepared. However there was the same sensation that many had witnessed: what was this movie about?

A film crew from Tehran arrives in a remote village to shoot the burial of a hundred years plus old woman. The issue is that the woman hasn't died yet; everybody expects her to pass away, but the event seems to be postponed day by day. The head of the crew is called every twenty-four hours on cell as the boss from Tehran cannot understand why they cannot produce the documentary; how long will it take for the old woman to die? Meanwhile life goes on in the village, nothing special happens. By the end you will not know anything more: a movie where nothing happens.

Actually it is not very clear whether the crew came to shoot the burial or for some other hidden reasons: nothing is explained, you hear all the crew members talking, you don't see them, but their chief only. People call him Engineer, he lets them believe that's true, we spectators suspect he's anything but engineer.

Now, if you think at Tarkovsky's Stalker, everything is unclear there, too, and nothing is explained. You don't know where they go and why; however, there is a growing tension, and you start to participate along with the personages to the quest.

While here, in The Wind Will Carry Us, there is no tension: are they looking for something, expecting something, the death of the woman, the discovery of a treasure, whichever? You, spectator, don't know and as the movie approaches its end you don't care any more.

Thinking at Stalker, an idea came to my mind: that the movie was actually communicating something, only it was very well hidden: here, in The Wind Will Cary Us, we spectators were actually the personages looking for the meaning of the movie, the same way the personages of Stalker were looking for their unknown target. Kiarostami was apparently playing with us the way the guide was playing with the two other main characters from the movie of Tarkovsky.

So I decided to watch the movie again, this time without subtitles. I had tried this experience very successfully with other movies. This way you are no more disturbed by the summary given by subtitles; you can dedicate your time hundred percent to the flow of images: they should give you the logic of what's on the screen.

The images were fantastic: the village with the houses embedded in the hill, looking from distance like small caves carved in stone, the way monks from old times were living; as you were coming closer they were looking like made from clay, a whole village of clay; as you were even closer you were starting to see small houses with the walls of an unreal white and the windows of an unreal blue; the weird way to walk through the village, following kind of an Escher logic. The houses were somehow one on the top of the other, walking through the village meant using sometimes small ladders, sometimes leaving your house and jumping on the roof of the house below, you had to go down the village to get to the top of it. Of course people were sharing with their animals the narrow paths through the village, and the camera of the movie was having all the patience in the world to film a cock passing slowly the image from right to left or to observe two animals in copulation.

Well, there was something strange with the images: they were repetitive; the same image was coming again and again, with the same personages (villagers, goats, whichever) doing the same thing in the same way; like in Minimalist music (think at Philip Glass for instance), the repetitive musical phrases. The effect was somehow the same: images like patterns, suggesting a rhythm of life rather than supporting a story.

There was something else that struck me this time: the sound of the voices! Not the voices of the crew members, no. The sound of the voices of the villagers. It was the same sound that I remembered from my visits years ago to a village on the border of Danube in Romania!

Of course there wasn't any link between the language spoken by the Romanian villagers from the border of Danube and the one spoken in the Kurdish village from the movie; however the sound was identical! The way they emphasized parts of their speech. Also the way they were moving, the grimaces on their faces in specific situations! I would say the grimaces on their voices and on their faces. And their movements, their actions: they were like expected by me, I knew them, they were the same as in the village I knew.

A rural civilization: I thought at Parajanov's Tini zabutykh predkiv. Well, it was very different. The movie of Parajanov was a ballade about forgotten shadows. Here, in The Wind Will Carry Us it was a rural civilization nowadays.

A rural civilization that is our contemporary. Of course the villagers are aware of the urban civilization; the young ones dream to move to the city (where they loose more and more the rhythms of the village; it takes them two generations to be completely adapted to the new environment).

And it is not only the migration to the city. You feel here in the village the influence of the urban civilization. However, their life goes on a different pace. They take something from the city, but they go on with their rhythms. Their values are different, their approach to the challenges. The more you know them the more you realize that their universe is different. And you realize some kind of impenetrability.

And so I started to understand that the movie was not about the apparent plot; it was about a rural civilization: it was somehow playing over the fine line between a feature film and a documentary; was it a documentary hidden into the appearance of a narrative?

I watched the movie once more, this time with subtitles.

So I discovered something new: the dialog was full of quotations from Iranian poets! It seemed at first very odd to me: the verses seemed to be artificially put in the economy of the movie.

However, the movie had the title of a poem by a modern Iranian poet, Forough Farrokhzad. So, it was something hidden here, too.

I found the poem (The Wind Will Carry Us) on the web, in its French and English translations. I tried a translation into Romanian, just to understand a bit better the Weltanschaung of the poet.

I looked then for other poems of Forough Farrokhzad. I found Another Birth: I translated it also into Romanian and I was amazed to find this time a string of verses (Perhaps life is / A long street along which a woman / With a basket passes every day) that recalled into memory a scene from one of the greatest movies ever: Spring in a Small Town, the masterpiece of Fei Mu, from 1948!

The universe of Forough Farrokhzad was seeming to me somehow deceptive, both simple and subtle. A very direct language, with a very natural and candid expression of the erotic, while her intimate feelings were communicating with the perception of cosmic: sun, and storm, and wind, life and death, real and illusory (It seems that it was along the vision of flight / that one day the bird emerged. / It seems that those breathless leaves in desire of breeze, / were made from green lines of dream).

Now, what could have been the logic of quoting Forough Farrokhzad in the movie? Her poem was recited by the engineer to a young woman, while she was milking a goat. The woman could not be seen as she was hidden in some dark spot. I was thinking at the reason of placing this poem exactly in that very moment, seemingly with no relation of any kind.

Watching the movie once more I noticed other verses of Forough Farrokhzad, just before the moment of the poem. This time it was a fragment from a very small piece of poetry (The Gift: O kind one, / If you come to my home, / Bring me a light / And a nook / From which I may watch the crowding of the glad lane).

The young woman was milking the goat in such a nook! A tiny dark spot, and she had a flash light: actually darkness was outside the nook. Suddenly the scene appeared to me as a delicate painting filled with poetry: a cinematic replica to the verses!

I watched again the movie and I noted some other verses. It was difficult to find the source: however I succeeded with Neshami, a poem of another modern Iranian, Sohrab Sepehri. The quotation was at the beginning of the movie: a SUV carrying the crew was running on a dusty road, toward the village; they were having very summary directions (take the road down till you see a huge tree alone, then take a left, then ...). The engineer said suddenly two verses (Near the tree, / There is a garden-line greener than in God's dreams), making kind of fun of their situation. The other guys started to laugh, as they all knew the poem:

The rider asked in the twilight,
Where is the friend's house?
Heaven paused
The passer by bestowed the flood of light on his lips to the darkness of sands,
and pointed to a poplar and said:

Near the tree,
Is a garden-line greener than God's dream
Where love is bluer than the feathers of honesty.
Walk to the end of the lane, which emerges from behind the puberty,
then turn towards the flower of solitude,
two steps to the flower,
stay by the eternal mythological fountain of earth,
where a transparent fear will visit you,
in the flowing intimacy of the space you will hear a rustling sound,
you will see a child,
Who has ascended a tall plane tree to pick up chicks from the nest of light,
ask him:
Where is the friend's house?

And the child appeared suddenly in the movie: he was waiting to lead them to the village! So, the beginning of the movie became to me a replica to the poem of Sepehri.

Towards the end, a quote from Omar Khayam (They tell me the other world is as beautiful as a houri from heaven! / Yet I say that the juice of the vine is better. / Prefer the present to those fine promises. / Even a drum sounds melodious from afar).

Was the whole movie a succession of replicas to poetry? I would say yes, as I noted some other verses, though I wasn't successful any more to find their source (When you are fated to be black / Even holly water cannot whiten you): the engineer and the kid are walking through the village and the engineer is wondering why the name of the village is Black Hill when all houses are painted white.

Then the whole conversation among villagers at the tea house, about the three trades performed by a woman during day, evening and night: it looks like a humorous Persian folk tale from medieval times.

A documentary or a replica to verses, be them old or modern?

Need was to watch the movie several times to understand that beyond the apparent simplicity of a plot where nothing happened it was hidden a very refined creation offering multiple levels of understanding. The rural civilization depicted there was actually the support chosen by Kiarostami for a cinematic replica to Iranian poetry.

Then what about the plot? What was its role?

A plot that seemed to make no sense: the crew arrives in the village, the engineer walks here and there, greeting people with Salaam Aleikum. He is called on cell each day by his bosses from Tehran. In order to have a proper cell signal, the engineer jumps each time on his SUV and runs to the only place where his cell is functioning: the cemetery. Someone in the cemetery gives him once a femur from a human corpse. He keeps the femur as kind of a trophy.

And those stabbed words
are circulating in his ravaged mind:Salaam Aleikum!...
How could I tell him that he is not alive,
that he was never alive.

These verses (from The Cold Season, that weren't recited in the movie) started giving me some insights into the plot, and into the movie as a whole. The engineer had come to the village to make a documentary on the rural civilization there . But he could not understand the life of the village (he was not alive there, so to speak), because he was framed by other values, other rhythms. He and the village were living in parallel universes, not connected each other. Each time he was trying to take a step inside the village life, the cell was calling, he had to jump on the SUV and to run; each time he was running the SUV the dogs were barking after him, or the herd of goats was passing imperturbably, or a cock was crossing the road.

Well, as the movie was going on, the engineer seemed to begin understanding the values of that rural society; the implicit arrogance from the beginning was progressively replaced by some kind of amazement and humility.

At a certain moment he sees a tortoise and pleasingly overturns it; after a couple of scenes we see that the tortoise has succeeded to come back to her normal position and is continuing its way. Another moment comes: the engineer observes an ant carrying a piece of bread much bigger than it. Now he is understanding a small miracle of life.

And at the end of the movie the engineer renounces to his trophy, the femur from a human corpse: this is no more for him a piece of derisive play. The femur is thrown in a stream of water, and it starts to flow down: it was returned to the nature where it belongs.

The poem in the middle of the development of the movie became suddenly for me a moment of climax: from that moment on the engineer will start to realize that, like in the verses of Forough Farrokhzad, he should open his mind to the smallest details of life, and follow them, give up his urban control... the wind will carry him away...

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.

listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.

O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will cary us.

And I realized that, like in all work of Kiarostami, this was an exploration of the differences between movie and reality, between representation and object. The engineer was actually Kiarostami himself, trying to seize the universe in his movie, unable to do it other way than forgetting about plot and conventions, opening his eyes and mind to the humblest detail, letting himself be fascinated by the miracle of each small creature, forgetting about narrative and contemplating the poetry of the beyond the obvious.



(I'm in the Mood for Kiarostami)

(Forough Farrokhzād)

Forough Farrokhzād - The Cold Season

I respect poetry in the very same way that religious people respect religion
(Forough Farrokhzād)

Traduttore, Traditore. Sa incerci sa traduci versuri este o cutezanta vecina cu neobrazarea. O fac pentru mine: incerc sa inteleg un pic universul spiritual al acestei poete despre care stiu atat de putine lucruri. Am la indemana cateva poeme de-ale ei in traducere engleza. Incercarea mea este o dubla tradare.

Cred ca versurile inseamna altceva decat cuvinte si propozitii. Sunt imagini poetice inlantuite intr-o anume logica. Si imaginile poetice, si logica lor de inlatuire se rostuiesc frumos in limba autorului.

Forough Farrokhzād si-a compus versurile in limba persana. Universul ei de imagini si de structuri in care imaginile sa curga dela sine este universul culturii iraniene de astazi.

Cred ca o traducere directa in romaneste ar pastra mult mai mult bogatia originalului. Si romanii, si iranienii, sunt rasariteni.

Stiu ca exista o traducere directa in romana, din 1988: Intalnirea in noapte, rodul colaborarii unui filolog cunoscator al limbii si culturii persane (Vasile Sofineti) si al unui poet (Dan Verona). Nu am la indemana cartea; o voi cauta cand voi veni la Bucuresti.

Asadar, incerc sa traduc pentru mine, ca sa inteleg un pic universul poetei, si mai apoi universul culturii iraniene de astazi. Un film extraordinar facut de Abbas Kiarostami are acelasi titlu cu unul din poemele ei (Bad ma ra khahad bord - The Wind Will Carry Us).

E insa aproape imposibil sa reusesc o traducere decenta. Imi pare o poeta cu un limbaj foarte direct, de o mare sinceritate, vorbind firesc despre dragoste si despre viata si moarte. Imaginile ei poetice si logica dupa care ele se justifica si se inlantuie imi par derutante: pentru ca sunt simple si in acelasi timp subtile.

Versurile ei par a vorbi despre doua universuri care curg in paralel si isi trimit din cand in cand semnale unul celuilalt. Un univers intim, in care eroticul este natural si este reflectat cu candoare; nu este un erotic cautat cu orice pret, nu este un erotic on purpose, iar imaginile lui sunt derutante pentru ca vin dintr-o lume foarte diferita de cea in care traim; miscarea unei perdele si jocurile de lumina, lumanarile care raspandesc miresme grele, dormitoare incarcate de flori. Apoi universul din afara, in care soarele, intunericul, curgerea apei, suvoiul navalnic al ierbii, stolurile de pasari, toate acestea vorbesc despre lucruri grave, despre viata si despre moarte, dar vorbesc iarasi in imagini care ne deruteaza: ciorile apar deodata ca sa coboare spre balta plictisului, intunericul este bine venit pentru ca preschimba ochii lupilor desertului in lacrimi de credinta, pasarile s-au nascut din iluzia zborului, viata oamenilor este o iluzie.

Intim si cosmic, iar trecerile neintreupte dintr-un univers intr-altul sunt mereu derutante.

Sau poate este de fapt acelasi univers, perceput cand intim, cand cosmic.

Dar cum zic, e greu: privesc la universul ei prin pacla, iar din ceea ce vad in versiunea engleza incerc sa imi inchipui bogatia originalului.

Sa vin insa la poemul The Cold Season. Nu a apucat sa il publice. Il terminase in ianuarie 1967. In februarie avea sa moara intr-un accident de masina. Avea numai 32 de ani.

Poemul a socat: parea premonitoriu, viata privita din perspectiva mortii, incercarea de a intelege moartea ca o fagaduinta spre regenerare. In timp ce ma luptam din greu cu imaginile poemului, gandul ma ducea cateodata spre paradigma christica. E si aceasta o cutezanta, poemul este foarte direct in sensurile erotice. Ma gandeam atunci la ambiguitatea sublima a atator mari poeti persani, amestecand dinadins l'amore sacro e l'amor profano. Si atunci ma gandeam la Cantarea Cantarilor.

Poemul vorbea despre venirea anotimpului rece care te ingroapa sub un strat enorm de zapada, ca intr-un mormant; iar poeta era de acum ingropata intr-un cimitir din Teheran; piatra de mormant era sub un strat enorm de zapada. Astepta acolo primavara, care va sa vie si sa faca dragoste cu reflectarea albastra a cerului.


Sunt doar eu,
Nimeni langa mine,
Doar eu,
La portile iernii,
Descoperind sufletul manjit al pamantului,
Disperarea trista a cerului
Si neputinta mainilor mele inghetate.

Vremea a trecut,
Iar ceasul a batut de patru ori.
Este 21 decembrie azi.
Cunosc tainele anotimpurilor
Si inteleg vorbele clipelor.
Rascumparatorul este ingropat,
Iar pamantul, acest pamant primitor,
Isi tinteste degetul catre izbavire.

Vremea a trecut,
Iar ceasul a batut de patru ori.

Vantul suiera afara,
Vantul suiera afara,
Ma gandesc la imperecherea florilor;
La imbobocirea lor din tulpine plapande,
Si la clipa aceasta suferinda, supta de vlaga.

Un trecator pe langa pomii inmuiati de ger,
Si strunele vinelor lui albastrui
Crescute peste gatlej
Ca serpi lipsiti de viata.
Si cuvintele lui injunghiate
Circuland prin mintea-i ravasita:
Salaam Aleikum!
Iar eu ma gandesc la flori aflate in imperechere...

La portile iernii,
In lintoliul oglinzilor,
Cu toate amintirile mele care se sting,
In amurgul incarcat de constiinta tacerii,
Cum as putea oare sa-l rog sa se opreasca?
Trecatorul acesta,
Atat de linistit
De ingandurat,
Cu capul aplecat,
Cum as putea oare sa-i spun ca nu e viu,
Ca viu nu a fost niciodata?

Vantul suiera afara,
Si toate ciorile singuratece ale izolarii
Zboara in vechea gradina a plictisului.

Au furat nevinovatia inimii, intreaga,
Au inchis-o in castelul sirenei captive.
Cum sa mai poata dantui cineva acum?
Sa-si lase pletele copilariei sa picure aur
In apele fermecate?

Nimeni nu mai poate calca
Pe fructul oprit!

Dragostea mea,
Singura mea dragoste,
Toti acesti nori intunecati
Pazesc marea adunare a scanteierilor luminii.

Se pare ca din viziunea zborului
S-a ivit pasarea odata si odata.
Se pare ca frunzele,
Care nu respira, dar doresc briza,
Au fost faurite din dare verzi de visare.
Se pare ca toate aceste flacari purpurii,
Stralucind in inchipuirea casta a sticlei,
Erau doar o iluzie a luminii.


Vantul suiera afara,
Este inceputul ruinei.
Iti amintesti?
Ziua aceea,
Vantul suiera si atunci.

Voi stelelor,
Stelelor goale,
Cum puteti,
Atunci cand minciuna pluteste in aer,
Cum puteti sa va incredeti
In vorbele stolurilor de profeti?
Vom invia, vom fi milenare mumii,
Iar soarele ne va fi judecator
Asupra decaderii trupurilor noastre!

Imi este frig,
Ma simt ca si cand
Nu ma voi mai incalzi niciodata.
Dragostea mea,
Singura mea dragoste,
Cat de vechi era vinul acela?
Mai stii?

Suntem pe taramul in care timpul se scufunda,
Iar rechinii ma musca de brate.
Pentru ce ma tii inca
Dedesubt, sub valurile marii?

Imi este frig,
Si stiu ca din toate iluziile unei flori
Doar cateva picaturi de sange vor dura.

Voi lasa de-o parte liniile,
Si hartile,
Si dintre toate formele geometrice,
Ma voi adaposti in spatiul in expansiune al sensului.
M-am dezbracat,
Sunt ca o pauza tacuta intre vorbe mangaietoare,
Iar toate ranile sunt din dragoste,
Dragoste, din dragoste.

Am salvat ostrovul acesta parasit,
Din revolutia oceanelor,
Din explozia muntilor.

Stiai?
Explozia aceea a fost talismanul acelui trup mort
Explozia l-a rupt nascand scanteieri nenumarate.

Fii binevenit, intuneric nevinovat,

Fii binevenita, noapte.
Tu, noapte, ai schimbat ochii lupilor desertului
In lacrimi, de credinta si de incredere.
Iar langa apele lacurilor tale,
Spiritele batranilor arbori
Fac dragoste cu sufletele topoarelor.

Vin de pe taramul mintilor, vorbelor, sunetelor inghetate,
Taram care este ca o groapa plina de serpi,
Plin de prieteni care
Iti tin mainile captive
Si te agata de capetele lor.

Fii binevenita, noapte inocenta,
Stii? Intre geam si vedere
Exista intotdeauna un spatiu liber.

Cum de nu mi-am dat seama?
Ca atunci cand am vazut trecatorul
De pe langa pomii inmuiati de ger?
Cum de nu mi-am dat seama?

Se pare ca mama a plans
In noaptea aceea cand am venit in durere
Si in adancul clisos al rasaritului.

In noaptea aceea am devenit jumatatea lui Acacias
Iar orasul era burdusit
De ecoul ferestrelor pline de culoare
Iar jumatatea mea venise de acum, simteam.

O vedeam in oglinda
Pura ca reflectia luminii.
Deodata m-a strigat pe nume
Si am devenit jumatatea lui Acacias.
Se pare ca mama a plans
In noaptea aceea.

O lumina inutila a explodat acum in groapa.
Cum de nu mi-am dat seama?
Toate clipele mele de fericire stiau de fapt
Ca mainile vor imbatrani si decade,
Doar ca nu mi-am dat seama,
Pana ce ceasul a batut de patru ori.

Apoi am intalnit persoana aceea micuta
Cu ochii deserte cuiburi de oua de bufnita,
Dusa in tremuratul picioarelor
Carand nevinovatia visurilor mele
Departe, in inima noptii.

Imi voi scutura oare din nou pletele
In bataia vanturilor?
Voi mai creste oare
Tufe de trandafiri in gradina?
Le voi mai aseza in spatele perdelelor?
Voi mai dansa din nou in betie, nebuneste?
Ma va indruma oare din nou vreun sunet
Spre locul de unde il astept?

Trecatorul acela,
Atat de plin de incredere in el.
Uite!
Dintii lui recita lacom mestecatul mancarii,
Iar ochii ii devoreaza privelistile,
Iata-l cum trece pe langa pomii inmuiati de ger:
Linistit,
Ingandurat,
Confuz.

Este ora patru,
Serpii morti ai venelor sale umflate
Ii cresc deasupra gatlejului,
Si fraza asta repetata la infinit
Ii stapaneste mintea:
Salaam Aleikum!
Salaam Aleikum!

Hei, trecatorule,
Ai mirosit vreodata astea patru lalele marine?

Vremea s-a scurs,
Iar noaptea s-a lasat peste ramurile goale ale pomilor,
A alunecat peste ferestre,
In timp ce limba ei rece lingea ce mai ramasese din zi.

De unde am venit oare,
Cu trupul jilav,
Cu miros de umbra?
Iar mormantul e inca proaspat,
Mormantul mainilor astea tinere...

Ce bine era, dragostea mea,
Singura mea dragoste,
Ce bine era cand minteai
Si iti mascai oglinzile ochilor
Cu atat de multa tandrete!
Cu cata grija
Aprindeai luminile,
Cu festile inalte, subtiri, negre!

Si noptile pacatoase
In care intram in abatorul iubirii,
Sa stingem aburul confuz al flacarii insetate.

Si stelele goale
Rotindu-se in jurul acelui obscur infinit!
Si ele chemau zgomote, glasuri,
Staruind sa priveasca lumina aceea oribitoare!

Dar iata!
Persoana care vorbea cu vorbe din suflet,
Si strapungea cu ochii,
Si lovea cu maini tandre,
Au rastignit-o, pe crucea suspiciunii si indoielii,
Iar cele cinci degete ale tale
I-au scrijelit pe fata cinci litere: cinci adevaruri.

Ce este tacerea?
Oare nu cantecul vorbelor ingropate?
Da, am amutit, dar vorbele vrabiilor
Spun despre simpla sarbatoare a lumii.
Cantecul lor este despre frunza, floare si curgerea apei,
Despre adiere, parfum, nastere,
Dar si vorbele lor mor.

Cine este acela,
Care paseste peste aceste drumuri sacre,
Care nu duc nicaieri?
Inima lui nu a auzit niciodata
Chemarile timpurii ale vulturilor cei tineri.
Cine este aceea.
Purtand lungul voal superb al iubirii,
Imbatranita in rochia ei de mireasa?

Soarele, vai, nu a reusit sa patrunda
Amandoua sufletele noastre, ramase in singuratate fiecare,
Iar aerul acela pur, albastru precum cerul, a fost stors din tine.
In schimb in mine exista o densitate,
Glasul meu este dens ca o rugaciune.

Ramane fericitul,
Cel egal cu el insusi,
Intelept, tacut,
Strigoi chipes,
Aparand mereu in aceleasi momente,
In lumina neincrezatoare a stelelor calatoare.

Fii binevenita, dulce izolare a singuratatii!
Ti-am daruit intregul meu spatiu,
Si stiu, acesti nori intunecosi,
Imi vobesc despre apropierea cerului liber.

Numai ultima palpaire a flacarii stie
Taina luminii din viata lumanarii.

Hai sa credem,
Hai sa credem in inceputul iernii,
Hai sa credem in ruina gradinii viselor,
In lopeti ramase neincarcate, abandonate,
In seminte lasate in saci sa doarma,
Uite!
Afara ninge, se asterne strat de zapada...

Poate ca adevarul statea in mainile astea tinere,
Ingropate acum, sub un strat nesfarsit de zapada.
Dar cand primavara va veni
Si va face dragoste
Cu reflectarea albastra a cerului,
Iar suvoiul verde de iarba proaspata,
Va curge navalnic,
Atunci mainile tale vor inflori, dragostea mea,
Singura mea dragoste.
Sa credem in inceputul iernii!





(Forough Farrokhzād)

Forough Farrokhzād - The Gift / Frontier Walls

Ii vorbesc acum sfarsitului noptii,
Sfarsitului intunericului!

Tu, care mi-esti atat de drag,
Daca vii,
Adu-mi o lumina
Si un cotlon,
Din care sa privesc
Buluceala
De pe poteca aceea plina de viata.

Intoarce-te cu mine
La steaua aceea de departe,
Departe de anotimpurile inghetate ale Pamantului
De felul lui de a intelege si masura
Acolo unde nimeni nu se teme de lumina.

Intoarce-te cu mine
La inceputul Creatiei,
In inima oului fecundat,
La momentul acela in care m-am nascut.

(din blogul lui Cizdabedar)

(Forough Farrokhzād)

Forough Farrokhzād - Another Birth

Sufletul meu este un vers in clar-obscur
Care te reia mereu
Si te duce catre tinutul
Inmuguririlor eterne,
Al florilor imbobocite,
Versul acesta este un oftat greu,
Iar cu oftatul meu te-am altoit de pomi,
De apa si de foc.

Poate ca viata este
Un drum lung pe care o femeie
Trece in fiecare zi, cu un cos.
Poate ca viata este
O franghie, de care atarna un barbat
spanzurat de un ram,
Poate ca viata este
Intorsul acasa al unui copil de la scoala.
Poate ca viata este
Scanteia aprinzand o tigara
Cu care petreci timpul letargic
Dintre doua imbratisari in dragoste.
Sau poate pasul derutat al unui trecator
Ce-si ridica palaria,
Dandu-i binete, Salaam Aleikum! altuia,
Cu un zambet gol.

Poate ca viata este
Clipa aceea de nemiscare
In care privirea mea se stinge
In pupilele ochilor tai
Este un sens aici
Amestecat cu ceea ce simti
Atunci cand luna se lasa privita
Sau cand intunericul acopera toate.

Intr-o odaie care are marimea unei singuratati doar,
Inima,
De marimea unei singure iubiri,
Contempla pretextele simple ale fericirii proprii,

Contempla ofilirea gingasa a florilor in ghivece,
Contempla rasadul pus de tine,
Cantecele canarilor,
Mari doar cat sa umple fereastra.

Asta este soarta mea,
Este bolta cereasca acoperita de caderea perdelei,
Este coborarea unor trepte uitate de vreme
Inspre decadere si nostalgie.
Este o plimbare fara voiosie prin gradina amintirii,
Stingandu-se in durerea unui glas care-mi spune,
Sunt indragostit de mainile tale!

Imi voi sadi mainile in rasad,
Si vor inmuguri,
Iar vrabiile isi vor lasa ouale
Intre mugurii degetelor mele
Inegrite de cerneala,
Exista o alee de demult,
Pe care inima a furat-o din amintirile copilariei
Si si-a facut din ea linie a vietii.

Calatoria unui volum pe linia ingusta derulata de trecerea vremii,
Si sadirea unui volum pe linia asta goala,
Un volum care isi stie imaginea,
Asa cum apare in ospatul oglinzii.

Acesta este drumul
Pe care cineva moare
Si ramane pururi,
Caci perlele nu pot fi pescuite
Pe orice firicel de apa
Varsandu-se intr-un sant oarecare.

Cunosc o mica sirena,
Care locuieste in ocean,
Isi sufla gingas inima ei
Intr-un mic nai din trestie.
Este o sirena mica si trista,
Care moare cu un sarut in fiecare noapte
Pentru a se naste din nou cu un alt sarut in fapt de zori.

(Forough Farrokhzād)

O poezie de Forough Farrokhzād

Forough Farrokhzād (1935 - 1967)

...The Wind Will Carry Us Away...

In noaptea mea marunta, o Doamne!
Vantul are intalnire cu frunzisul,
Si cu pomii, cu somnul lor linistit.
Maruntei mele nopti ii este teama,
Ii este teama sa nu fie spulberata.

Uite! Umbra ta si-a mea
Vin sa ne vada!

Asculta! Auzi vantul cel intunecos soptind?
Iar eu il privesc cu ochi pe care mi-i simt straini,
In voia grijilor mele, atat.
Il auzi soptind?

Uite! Umbra ta si-a mea
Vin sa ne vada!

Dar uite, uite!
Ceva se-ntampla-n noapte!
Luna, uite, e rosie,
Si e nelinistita!
Iar acoperisul poate sa cada peste noi oricand.

Norii s-au adunat
Ca un ciorchine de bocitoare,
Asteptand parca acea clipa a ploii ropotind.
Bulgari de ploaie in ropot!

Uite! Umbra ta si-a mea
Vin sa ne vada!

Gata! Clipa a trecut. Si dupa ea, nimic.
Uite! Fereastra!
Si dincolo de ea tremurul noptii,
Tremurul noptii, si Pamantul
Incremenit din crugul sau.
Dincolo de fereastra e o taina.
O taina, ce se tese.
Pentru noi doi.
Atat! Pentru noi doi.

Tu, care esti atat de verde,
Cum numai sufletul frunzelor poate sa fie,
Da-mi mainile tale, ca amintiri arzande,
Si buzele, calde ca viata, lasa-mi-le
In seama buzelor mele, sa le mangaie.

Uite! Umbra ta si-a mea
Vin sa ne vada!
Hai, hai sa ne lasam in voia lui,
A vantului!
Iar vantul ne va purta cu el pe amandoi,
Departe.

Le Vent nous emportera

Dans ma nuit, si brève, hélas
Le vent a rendez-vous avec les feuilles.
Ma nuit si brève est remplie de l'angoisse dévastatrice
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
De ce bonheur, je me sens étranger.
Au désespoir je suis accoutumée.
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
Là, dans la nuit, quelque chose se passe
La lune est rouge et angoissée.
Et accrochés à ce toit
Qui risque de s'effondrer à tout moment,
Les nuages, comme une foule de pleureuses,
Attendent l'accouchement de la pluie,
Un instant, et puis rien.
Derrière cette fenêtre,
C'est la nuit qui tremble
Et c'est la terre qui s'arrête de tourner.
Derrière cette fenêtre, un inconnu s'inquiète
pour moi et toi.
Toi, toute verdoyante,
Pose tes mains - ces souvenirs ardents -
Sur mes mains amoureuses
Et confie tes lèvres, repues de la chaleur de la vie,
Aux caresses de mes lèvres amoureuses
Le vent nous emportera!
Le vent nous emportera!

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.


listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.


O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.


(Forough Farrokhzād)