Sunday, January 22, 2012

Forough Farrokhzad / The Window



The Window
by Forough Farrokhzad

A window to see,
A window to hear,
A round window –
like an unending well:

It should reach–
to the garnet core of Earth.

And it should release–
into its gentle, lightly air.

A window that loads lonely, little hands–
with the nocturnal scent of generous stars.

A window that invites the sun–
to the glacial exile of the blooms.
A window,
A window is enough for me.



1 comment:

  1. This is only part of the poem, complete poem is as follows:

    Window

    sun-through-window.jpg

    A window to see-
    A window to hear-

    A round window like an unending well:
    It should reach to the blazing core of Earth.
    And it should release into-
    its gentle, lightly air.

    A window that loads lonely, little hands-
    with the nocturnal scent of generous stars.
    A window that invites the sun-
    to the glacial exile of blooms.

    A window,
    A window is enough for me.

    I am coming from the land of puppets,
    And from underneath shades of painted trees-
    in the printed gardens of fiction books.

    I am coming from-
    arid seasons of thrill-
    and barren years of romance,
    from deserted lanes of innocence,
    from the age of pastel faced letters.

    I am coming from-
    behind benches of a tired class.
    And from that confusing time-
    when I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board-
    and terrified birds- fled from naked branches of the trees.

    I arrive from beneath roots of carnivorous trees,
    And my mind is still filled -with the fearful cries of dried butterflies-
    under weighty volumes of pale, aged books.

    When my trust was hung-
    from the frail justice line of this town,
    And in the streets, they were cutting off the head of my torch,
    When they blind-folded the innocent eyes of my love,
    When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams,
    And when my life was nothing-
    but the regular chant of a Grandfather clock,
    I realized that I had to love,
    I had to love madly.

    A window is enough for me.
    A window to the instance of light, insight and peace.

    Now,
    the little walnut tree-
    that you had once known-
    is so grown, grown, so grown,
    that it can narrate the tale of wall-
    to its young leaves.

    Ask the name of The Redeemer from mirrors!

    Don’t you see?
    This trembling ground-
    underneath your bare feet-
    is lonelier than you.

    The verdict of this ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes;
    And these infected clouds and incessant blasts, perhaps,
    stem from those sacred words.

    My friend!
    Don’t forget!
    When you land on the moon,
    engrave the date of the carnage-
    of young flowers of this Earth-
    on its sad, soft, wrinkled face.

    Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die.
    And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest,
    a little plant, with four tiny leaves,
    constantly grows.
    I smell this plant.

    A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope.
    Is she the remnant of my youth?

    A gentle god was taking nightly walks-
    in the fresh air of the roofs.
    Will I climb again, climb again-
    the curious steepness of the stairs-
    to greet him?

    I feel that the time had left.
    I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past.

    I feel that in this stand,
    there is only an unreal void, distancing my hair-
    from the hands of a sad, stranger guest.

    Talk to me!
    And I reward you-
    with the igniting love-
    of a whole life.

    And, I expect you nothing-
    but the reflection of its birth-
    in a glance of your eyes.

    Talk to me!
    Don’t you see?

    In shelter of my window,
    I am attached to the sun.


    By: Forough Farokhzad

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