Another Season

On the flowing edge of the garden’s hair

eyes might not see

but other senses can hear the song:

The gracious despair of the falling leaf

that slowly, slow, slowly,

lands on the open palm of the Earth.

***

On the face of the window

now is the unrest time for the dews.

The instance of sight

is dark, frozen, dark.

The Sun and the Fire

are cold, wet, cold.

And the night

is looking for a dry thicket

in the silent dream of stars.

***

It is another season

with a piercing cold.

Alas the feel of beauty

has gone so absolutely lost.

Alas the fall!

last fall with its blossom of colors

on its nude shoulders

is outside the reach of eyes.



Even in the fluidity of the Sun,

mid-day,

there is no warmth.

What’s happened?

Where’s the spring of this hush?

Is it only me?

Truthfully, is it only me?

or my World? the World? my World?

***

It seems that something

something has frozen beneath my skin:

In my heart

In my soul

there is no blaze

but the glance of ice

I now know!



By: Ahmad Shamlou

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani



From the anthology "Shekoftan dar Meh" (Birth in the Blizzard) 1956, Tehran.

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