( 1944 – 1974 )
Damoon
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,
Rain
Rain.
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.
