Window by

Window

by: Forough Farrokhzad
Translated by: Shirin Tabibzadeh and Melinda Barnhardt

A window for seeing
A window for hearing
A window that, like a tubular well, reaches at its end the heart of the earth
and opens to the vastness of this recurring blue kindness
A window that saturates the little hands of loneliness
with the nightly munificence of the fragrance of the generous stars
and from thence
it is possible to invite the sun to the loneliness of the geraniums
just a window is enough for me

I come from the realm of dolls
from beneath the shade of paper trees
in the garden of an illustrated book
from the dry seasons of sterile experiences of friendship and love
in the dusty alleys of innocence
from the years of the growth of the pale letters of the alphabet from behind the desks of the tubercular school
from the moment that the children could
write the word "stone" on the blackboard
and the startled starlings flew off the ancient tree

I come from amongst the roots of carnivorous plants
and my brain
is still filled with the sound of the horror of a butterfly
that they had crucified
in a notebook with a pin

When my confidence hung from the weak rope of justice
and all over town
they shattered the heart of my lights
When they blindfolded the childish eyes of my love
with the dark handkerchief of law
and from the disturbed temples of my dreams
spurted fountains of blood
When my life was nothing anymore
nothing except the tick-tock of a clock on the wall
I learned that I must, must, must
madly love.

One window is enough for me
one window into the moment of consciousness and observation and silence
Now the walnut shoot
has grown tall enough to explain the wall
to its young leaves
Ask the mirror
the name of your savior
The earth that trembles under your feet
is it not lonelier than you?
The prophets have brought with them the message of destruction to our century
Are these successive explosions
and poisoned clouds
the echoes of holy verses?
Eh, friend, eh, brother, eh, blood-kin
when you reach the moon
write the history of the massacre of the flowers

Dreams always fall from the height of their credulity and die
I smell a four-leaf clover
that has grown upon the grave of worn-out concepts
The woman who turned to dust in the shroud of her longing and virtue,
was she my youth?
Will I ever again climb the stairs of my curiosity to greet the good God
who walks on the rooftop?

I feel that time has run out
I feel that the "moment" of my portion belongs to the pages of history
I feel that the table is a false distance between my hair and the hands of this sad stranger
Talk to me
What does the person who bestows upon you the kindness of a living body
want from you, but the realization of the sense of existence?

Talk to me
I, in the shelter of this window
communicate with the Sun.