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Another Birth / Forough Farrokhzad
Another Birth / Forough Farrokhzad

Another Birth / Forough Farrokhzad


Forough Farrokhzad

translated by: Karim Emami

My whole being is a dark chant

which will carry you

perpetuating you

to the dawn of eternal growths and blossomings

in this chant I sighed you sighed

in this chant

I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.


Life is perhaps

          a long street through which a woman holding

          a basket passes every day

Life is perhaps

a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch

life is perhaps a child returning home from school.


Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette

in the narcotic repose between two love-makings

or the absent gaze of a passerby

who takes off his hat to another passerby

with a meaningless smile and a good morning.

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment

when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes

and it is in the feeling

which i will put into the moon’s impression

and the night’s perception.


In a room as big as loneliness

my heart

which is as big as love

looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness

at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase

at the sapling you planted in our garden

and the song of canaries

which sing to the size of a window.



this is my lot

this is my lot

my lot is

a sky which is taken away at the drop of curtain

my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs

to regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia

my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories

and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me

I love

your hands.


I will plant my hands in the garden

I will grow I know I know I know

and swallows will lay eggs

in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.


I shall wear

a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings

and i shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails

there is an ally

where the boys who were in love with me

still loiter with the same unkempt hair

thin necks and bony legs

and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl

who was blown away by the wind one night.


There is an alley

          which my heart has stolen

          from the streets of my childhood.


The journey of a form along the line of time

inseminating the line of time with the form

a form conscious of an image

coming back from a feast in a mirror.


And it is in this way

that someone dies

and someone lives on.

No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook

          which empties into a pool.


I know a sad little fairy

who lives in an ocean

and ever so softly

plays her heart into a magic flute

a sad little fairy

who dies with one kiss each night

and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

minorliterature / 8 july 2018

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