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Research: Iran

Reza Barahani

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Literature: Poems of Iranian Poet, Reza Barahani
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Commendation, Translated to English by M. Alexandrian
Her blossoming beauty must be
taught
In the ancient eastern cities
- In imaginary seats of the caliphates.
Because
It is a lesson of golden government,
Her beauty,
And her dynasty looking tresses is a caliphate in whose length
An army of nightingales
Are resting,
In the nocturnal terror of history,
Sitting like white flowers,
in the margin,
And her hands 
- Which is a token of simplicity -
Is Leila's nocturnal shirt,
And her ears,
Like the hymen of gazelles
And her eyes,
Like a mass of sunrise. 
Her blazing fingers 
Has defined the alphabet of love
Because
Her forefinger attests the gazelles.

I have received expect order from her,
To throw her blazing tresses
On dead sheets
And witness the resurrection of mankind.
The Thousand Year Old Moon Will Carry Me Away
The thousand years old month will carry me away,
On its geometric wings,
On surface of its circular soul,
And it will let me go in the green annihilation,
Because I am of the mortal race,
From the silent progeny of the dying.

The thousand-year old month,
This particle of Milky Way
This break-away mass
This leased planet,
in its whirling circular cup,
Will mount 
The bones of boasting me
On its surface
And will pass me through the green annihilation,
And will let me go in its green annihilation;

I will be abandoned in a space emptier than silence,
And will pass through every window,
And will be abandoned in green springs;
The long river of death will summon me,
The sea,
Will let me cross like a dear boat,
The giant wing of the whale,
Will cross 
Through the warm and narrow imagination,
And will shatter
This boasting bone.

The thousand year old moon will carry me away.
One Year
A white and bloody rose
On the water
And a garden with geometrical color
On whose height floats illuminating geography,
And the sun which rose
From the shoulders of my mistress.

All, all,
In this silent, in this hour,
Are as close to me as my artery (Sharag).

My imagination which does not want
To jump higher that the giant spurting of blood,
Is an intimate imagination,
Is a noble imagination.

Dear stars,
Show me 
The flower spreading sunrises.
 

Research: Iranian Contemporary Poems

 

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