Sohrab Rahimi
Swedish Poet

Research: Sweden

Sohrab Rahimi
Literature: Poems
Lonely Rooms

Translated by Leila Farjami  

And embarking
was a bitter journey
in continuance along time.

behind the angle of dusk,
I sat watching my own death
And I journeyed
through the lonely rooms
up to the dampened windows
through the margin of imagination
up to the shadows of death.
I journeyed
in the context of silence.
I became uninterrupted in the frame corners.
I went in the wind
I became impatient
To the wind
I lost all. *

A figurative translation of a Persian expression “being carried on the wind” which means losing everything one owns.
The Corridor of Waiting
What has died in me?
that I forget the time
And in front of me
the space gets blackened.

The rain
squashes my pieces
dispersing them onto the wind.
Till the sun comes
my eastern skin will wither
And peel off in the corridor of waiting
with its dark depth
Engulfing the voice
the image
and drowning me
in the frame of an exhausted voice
which desiccated my youth
Pouring it on a path
awaiting the arrival of the one
who will never come.
On the Wing of Galaxy
I write on the wind
from the tongue of leaves
from the tongue of boughs.
Your hair is reflected
on the passage of memory
And the perfume of your breaths
drips on the moment’s wing.
The turn of the heel
on the alley’s sheet
And mesmerized by the footstep,
twisting of the knife
on the plate
and the cracking of the fog in the frame.

In the depth of loneliness
heart’s image turns into stone
on the wing of galaxy.
The Moment of Disintegration
I have sat here
down in the depth of the chair
And I look at you
concealed in the peak of shadows.

Here is the earth’s moment of extinction
under my feet,
Here the time escapes beneath my feet,
It has been a long time
since I wrote a poem.
From here, where I am
I repeat your song in my heart.

If you look
you’ll see the skeleton of my youth
behind the desks of habitude.
Is my moment of disintegration.
The Nightmare of Consciousness
Sign off the moments somehow
around this page.
Writing, awaiting, and spinning
of the clock hands
around my ruins.
Believe me
There’s nothing wrong with me
I am only dying a bit.
Now, dissect me,
if you desire not,
Follow my funeral procession.
I have been born out of silence
and the loneliness of moments
And I have passed the lonely moments
to lose myself within you.
The black grids,
repeat themselves.
And chairs have fixed their eyes on your arrival.
Pass through the sound 
and beyond the wound,
Find me behind the scorched reds.
Every night,
behind the strolls of the rain
on the white page of the wind
someone hangs himself
in my dreams.

Research: Poems


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