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Nima Yushij
(Photo:
Hadi Shafaie)






Research: Iran

Nima Yushij

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Literature: Poems of Iranian Poet, Nima Yushij
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The Soldier's Family, Translated to English by M. Alexandrian
The candle burns, beside the curtain set,
So far this woman hasn't slept yet;
Over the cradle she leans (alone),
O wretched one, O wretched one.
A few rags form the curtain of the spouse
To protect the house.

For two days no food she has tasted,
With two kids, she hasn't rested;
One is ten, she is sleeping,
The other is awake and wailing.
She cries for her mother's milk which is small
This is another woe, (it is dismal).

The neighbor's child wears well,
She has her sports and eats well.
What difference is between these (I'm grieved)
What the other owns this one is bereaved.
A soldier's child dressed in rags (and gall)
Why must she live at all?

All she sees is but asperity
What she reads, breathes adversity;
Her back is bending, with all the load,
Her eyesight is dim in this abode;
Thus she labors like a man;
Thus she toils, the woman.
The Song of the Jungle
I wonder what tumult is racking the silence of this jungle 
That breeds a hundred songs of joy and sorrow in the heart;
I wonder what magic lies within the depth of jungles
That helps the jungle witch to ensnare man.

When the autumn morning sun rises,
The jungle gets so brightly lit
That it occurs to you
That each golden leaf is a candle flame
Burning in the jungle's heart.

Which knight must bring the happy tidings of victory
For whom the jungle is adorned with lights?
When the incense-spreading gale scatters 
A thousand gold coins over the jungle,
I wonder what the silent butterfly thinks
And by what melody the jungle love-bird
Sings the luring song of dropping leaves?

I like the jungle,
Because like the souls of us folks
It is full of mysterious and colorful lights and shadows.

I like the jungle,
Because a lively jungle is beautiful
And even at death it refreshes the world.
May the mirth breading jungle live long!
The Cold Stove
Surviving from very distant nights
At a silent path towards the jungle
A little stove made of stone,
Contains some cold ashes.

Like my melancholy thoughts buried in the dust,
Bearing sketches of everything,
A tale whose fruit is but pain.

My sweet day that agreed with me 
Has become an incongruous sketch,
It has grown cold and turned into stone
And the autumnal breathe of my life, turns yellow the spring's face.

Still surviving from very distant nights
At a silent path towards the jungle
A little stove made of stone,
Contains some cold ashes.
In the Cold Winter Night
In the cold winter night
The furnace of the sun too 
Burns not like the hot hearth of my lamp, 
And no lamp is luminous as mine
Neither it freezes by the cold moon that shines above. 

I lit my lamp when my neighbor was walking in a dark night,
And it was a cold winter night,
The wind encircled the pine,
Amid silent heaps
She was lost from me, separated from this narrow lane,
And still the story is remembered,
And on my lips these words lingered:
"Who lights? Who burns?
Who saves this tale of the heart?"

In the cold winter night
The furnace of the sun too 
Burns not like the hot hearth of my lamp, 
And no lamp is luminous as mine
Neither it freezes by the cold moon that shines above.
My House Is Cloudy
My house is cloudy,
The whole earth is covered by cloud.

From the top of the mountain pass, shattered and drunk 
Whirls the heavy wind,
Destroying all on earth
Including my senses.
O piper! who have been carried away by the music of your pipe; where are you?

My house is cloudy but
The cloud has started to pour down;
Fancying my bright days that are lost,
I stand towards the sun
And look at the expanse of the sea;
And all the world is demolished and beaten by the wind,
And on the road, the piper who plays the pipe for ever, 
Pursues his path in this cloudy world.

Literature

Iranian Contemporary Poets

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