Window

A window to see- A window to hear- A round window like an unending well: It should reach to the blazing core of Earth. And it should release into- its gentle, lightly air. A window that loads lonely, little hands- with the nocturnal scent of generous stars. A window that invites the sun- to the glacial exile of blooms. A window, A window is enough for me. I am coming from the land of puppets, And from underneath shades of painted trees- in the printed gardens of fiction books. I am coming from- arid seasons of thrill- and barren years of romance, from deserted lanes of innocence, from the age of pastel faced letters. I am coming from- behind benches of a tired class. And from that confusing time- when I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board- and terrified birds- fled from naked branches of the trees. I arrive from beneath roots of carnivorous trees, And my mind is still filled -with the fearful cries of dried butterflies- under weighty volumes of pale, aged books. When my trust was hung- from the frail justice line of this town, And in the streets, they were cutting off the head of my torch, When they blind-folded the innocent eyes of my love, When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams, And when my life was nothing- but the regular chant of a Grandfather clock, I realized that I had to love, I had to love madly. A window is enough for me. A window to the instance of light, insight and peace. Now, the little walnut tree- that you had once known- is so grown, grown, so grown, that it can narrate the tale of wall- to its young leaves. Ask the name of The Redeemer from mirrors! Don’t you see? This trembling ground- underneath your bare feet- is lonelier than you. The verdict of this ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes; And these infected clouds and incessant blasts, perhaps, stem from those sacred words. My friend! Don’t forget! When you land on the moon, engrave the date of the carnage- of young flowers of this Earth- on its sad, soft, wrinkled face. Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die. And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest, a little plant, with four tiny leaves, constantly grows. I smell this plant. A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope. Is she the remnant of my youth? A gentle god was taking nightly walks- in the fresh air of the roofs. Will I climb again, climb again- the curious steepness of the stairs- to greet him? I feel that the time had left. I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past. I feel that in this stand, there is only an unreal void, distancing my hair- from the hands of a sad, stranger guest. Talk to me! And I reward you- with the igniting love- of a whole life. And, I expect you nothing- but the reflection of its birth- in a glance of your eyes. Talk to me! Don’t you see? In shelter of my window, I am attached to the sun. Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montréal