Khosrow Golsorkhi

( 1944 – 1974 )

Golsorkhi speaking before the military court


Our great heart

is a sparrow wet

sitting on a tree at the corner of a street,

Under each tree-

aware of the axe,

are hundreds of thousands of indigents.

O thou! Forest

O!  If our heart couldst but rest without fear

on thy dense damp ringlets!

O! If but the entire streets of the city

were forests instead.

Lo! The forest spreading in fog and rain!

O thou! The comrade green!

On thy vast roads covered with leaves,

On thy meanderous roads,

each day,

sits a man awaiting-

a man tall as the cypress

with eyes bright and hazel-

a man who since birth,

hast doth lovingly sung to the masses of the city,

the flowing song of the forest

a man who is the creation of thine assembling

and thy woodfire unsparing

has doth been to him

as the continuity of the sun in seasons cold.

O thou! The sleeping lion!

O thou! The mark upon martyrs’ breasts!

Over the mighty forearm of the freedom fighter’s path

which hast doth abandoned become

Write not to the young rushes

thither this too wouldst wither away!

O thou! Who doth remain green

with thoughts of rivers!

within your damp dawn

which releases the perfume of comradeship,

the forest awakened

hast doth been shattered into blood-

What hearts of impetuosity

that which the most green were of forests

have doth been broken.

O thou! The shelter of watchful roosters

O thou! The forest spreading in the north!

Within thine air knotty and thick,

arenst’ those thunderous roars

the most corpulent trees?

Behold! The wildest speech

is the movement of leaves

upon the branches young.

Upon thy shoulders mighty

assembled from the comradeship

of branches numerous standing put,

have doth but ashes remained-

the ashes of each flame

in our hearts burning flows.

Let not the wind dishevel!

Let not be plundered,

from thy shoulders

the ashes that are

but of the essence of thy blood.

O thou! Forest; book of velvet poetry!

with letters,

soft and green-

writest upon the eyes of the clouds,

writest upon the obsolete farms,



A Nameless Poem

Though borne onto thy breast

the penetrating and potent wound of thine enemy,

O thou, O! The forever standing cypress,

never didst thou fall

‘Tis thy custom

whilest facing death,

yet standing tall

In thee,

the songs of dagger and bloodshed

In thee,

the migrating birds

In thee,

the song of conquest,

Never hadst thine eyes

been so bright as now

Of thy blood,

Toopkhaneh Square

will be awoken within the masses’ ire,

people overflow will

towards Toopkhaneh,

from far and near

bread and hunger thus

equally shared shall be.

O thou! The standing cypress!

‘Tis thy death

that doth creates,

‘Tis this,

to which

the enemy builds walls

These passers-by

true yet oppressed,

these indigents

know not of thy name, alas!

Once they knowst,

will then

each drop of thy blood

become a sanctum.

These masses thy name will sing

in each of their native songs.

Thy name;

the flag of Iran,

the Caspian is alive in thy name.

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