|
|
|
|
Mohammad Hoghoughi
Poems
Iran
|
Translated to English by Manavaz Alexadrian
The Blue Abadan Train
All the night
In the town
The agitated sound of the sun could be heard;
And at morning
When gurgling waters
Prayed on the black sun,
And the sun,
from underground passages
Joined the brawling waters of the morning.
The red gaze of the nurses,
The secret syringes,
The martyrdom of injection
And the metal eyes
Awaiting the train which brings the sun;
All the men
- The men who were beyond awakening -
On the roof of the seas
Were shadows of lindens.
And at mornings - every morning -
He sat down and asked about the travel of the wind and water:
"Has the train arrived?!"
And he saw
- That the train had arrived -
The blue train of Abadan
At the threshold of your disturbance over the sea.
The Destination Was An Eastern Wine House.
Death was the bird which passed on the shoulder of the breeze
And the closed gay houses were converted to glass cubicles.
- Without heeding the town of indulgence,
One must pass;
Your anger is vain,
It is vain."
And the desert stones have been carried away by the wind.
At busy evenings, at blind evenings,
O friend!
Where is that vat
Which is nearer?!
And suddenly that bloody bird
From the heart of the illuminated booths
f
e
l
l
On my breezy shoulders,
And the astonished autumnal leaves
Roamed in the cold season of the school.
Our destination was an eastern wine house,
From a street looking like a bush
- Ah ... o ever awake shadow,
Within ever awake shadow of ... Ah!"
When the bird doesn't drink wine...,
When the bird doesn't drink wine...
And the heart of the desert man
Suddenly
Was hung from the roof of the wine house,
And from the heart of a shepherd's wine
A strange woman
Looked at the clock,
And death
Stood
In the middle of the wine house.
From Heart to the Delta
The frozen moon,
On a rocky moonshine...
The night, within the cold's embrace,
The tent, within the night's embrace,
The poet, within the tent's embrace.
The night of waiting,
The night of waiting,
The night of waiting.
Should tomorrow down,
Should tomorrow down...
To morrow and
The white sound of the water,
The blue sound of the mountain,
The green sleep of the plain,
The yellow disk of the sun.
From the third spring of Lar,
From heart to the delta,
Beside the `Dobaradar' spring...
The poem which has arrived, is boiling,
And gradually it flows
To the brink of the whirlpool
Which expects you...
The white storm,
In a turbulent sea,
What a voyage!
What a voyage!
|
|
|
