The Cold Season
(Let us
believe in the beginning of the cold season)
It is me,
a lonely woman,
at the doors of a cold season,
and discovery of the soiled soul of Earth,
the sad despair of Sky,
and the inability-
of my frozen
hands.
Time passed,
Time passed and clock struck four times.
Today is the 21st of December.
I know secrets of seasons;
And I understand words of instants.
The redeemer is buried,
and the soil, this welcoming soil,
is pointing to the salvation.
Time passed,
and clock struck four times.
Wind is blowing outside,
Wind is blowing outside,
And I am thinking about flowers mating,
and about blossoms on their frail, pale stems,
and about this ailing, drained instant.
A man is passing by the soaked trees,
And his blue veins' strings,
raise over his gorge,
like lifeless snakes.
And those stabbed words,
are circulating in his ravaged mind:
“I greet you.”
And I am just thinking-
about flowers mating...
At the doors of a cold season,
in the hallway of the mirrors’ mourning,
with the entirety of my fading remembrance,
and in this loaded dusk by the consciousness of silence,
how could I ask him to stop?
Ask this man who goes-
so patient,
sthrown,
How could I tell him that he is not alive?-
that he was never alive?
Wind is blowing outside,
and all lonely crows of isolation-
are flowing in the aged garden of boredom.
Oh, the ladder has such a short height!
They took the whole innocence of a heart,
to the castle of Captive Mermaid;
And now,
and now, how someone would dance?
And would pour her childhood locks in happy waters?
And now,
Nobody will walk on the forbidden fruit.
My Beloved, my sole Beloved,
All these dark clouds are sentinels for the gathering of shines.
It seems that it was along the vision of flight,
that one day the bird emerged.
It seems that those breathless leaves in desire of breeze,
were made from green lines of dream.
It seems that those purple flames-
blazing in the chaste mind of glass-
were just an illusion of light.
Wind is blowing outside.
It is the beginning of ruin.
Do you remember?
The day your hands perished-
Iit was also
windy in the yard.
Dear stars!
Dear bare stars!
When lie is flying in the air,
How can you rely
on words of preyed-on prophets?
"We will resurge like millenary mummies
and the Sun will judge over the decadence of our bodies."
I am cold,
I am cold,
and it is like I will never warm up.
My Beloved, my sole Beloved,
How old was that wine?
Do you know?
We are in the land of sinking time,
and sharks are biting into my arms.
So why do you still keep me
underneath the sea?
I am cold.
And I hate pearl earrings.
I am cold,
and I know that from all the illusions of a tulip,
just a few drops of blood will last.
I will abandon lines,
I will also abandon charts;
And from bounded geometrical shapes,
I will shelter in the expanding vastness of sense.
I am nude, nude, nude.
I am bare-
like a silent pause between tender words,
And all of my wounds are from love,
love, from love.
I saved this forsaken islet-
from the revolution of oceans-
and the explosion of mountains.
Do you know?
Burst,
Burst was the talisman of that integrated corpse-
whose pieces gave birth-
to countless shines.
I greet you, innocent darkness!
I greet you, night!
You altered eyes of this desert’s wolves-
to the tears of faith and trust.
And near-by your lakes-
the spirits of old trees-
are making love-
to the souls of blades.
I am coming from the land of frozen minds, words, sounds
And this land is like a hole of snakes.
This land is full of friends-
who hold your hands-
and hang you in their heads.
I greet you innocent night!
You know, between the window-glass and sight
there is always an empty room.
Why didn’t I notice?
Like when the man was passing by soaked trees…
Why didn’t I notice?
It seemed that my mother had cried that night;
the night, I came upon the pain-
and the sticky depth of the dawn.
That night,
I became the Bride of Acacias.
That night the town,
was crammed with the shadow of colorful windows,
and my match had arrived inside my wits.
I was seeing him in the mirror,
And he was as pure as the reflection of lights.
Then suddenly he called my name-
and I became-
the Bride of Acacias.
It seemed like my mother had cried that night.
Oh, a futile brightness exploded in the dark hole...
Why didn’t I notice?
All instants of delight knew-
that your hands would decay.
But I didn’t notice-
until that clock struck four times.
Then,
I met that little woman.
Her eyes were like deserted nests of owls.
And she was taken away in blinking of her legs.
It seemed that she was carrying-
the virginity of my dreams-
towards the core of night.
Will I flow my hair again-
in crude winds?
Will I grow again-
bushes of roses, in the courtyard?
Will I place them again behind the blind?
Will I dance again mad, drunk, all around?
Can the buzzer again-
take me to the expectation of the sound?
I told my mom: “It is over now”.
I told her: “It always happens when you don’t expect.
We should send a condolence letter to the paper.”
The empty man,
The empty, full of confidence man,
Look!
His teeth are reciting at the lunch;
and his eyes are devouring the sights;
and how he is passing by soaked trees:
Patient,
Thrown,
Confused.
At four o’clock,
dead snakes of his bloated veins-
raise over his gorge,
and this ever-repeating phrase
possesses his mind:
“I greet you,
I greet you.”
Did you ever smell those four marine tulips?
Time passed,
Time passed and night-
fell on the naked branches of the trees.
Night is sliding over the windows’ glass,
And, its cold tongue is licking the entirety of Day’s remains.
Where do I come from?
Where do I come from that I am so damped,
by smell of the shades?
And it is still fresh, the tomb-
The tomb of those young hands…
How kind you were, my Beloved,
My sole Beloved.
How gentle it was when you lied.
And, you masked the mirrors’ eyes
so tenderly.
And you were so caring,
when you picked all lights,
from those tall, thin, dark poles.
In those wicked nights,
you were taking me to the abattoir of love,
until fainting in the confused steam of blazed thirst.
And those bare stars,
were turning around an obscured infinity.
They, alas, called noise, voice.
And, they stared at that blinding light
For too long.
And,
Why did they lodge the thorny caress-
in the curls of the mythical chaste?
Look!
The person who talked with words of her soul,
and stabbed with eyes,
and only hit with the stroke of tender hands,
is crucified on the cross of suspicion and doubt.
And your five fingers sketched five letters of Truth
on her face.
What is silence, silence, silence,
my sole Beloved?
Isn’t it just the chant of buried words?
I am mute but sparrows’ words-
are about blunt celebration of the world.
Their song is about leaf, flower and flow.
It is about breeze, perfume and birth.
Sparrows’ words would die in the deal.
Who is he?
He is crossing those void, sacred roads-
towards the instance of unison.
He is setting his sorry routine clock-
on the indifference of calculations.
Who is he?
His days’ heart never heard-
the early calls of young, golden eagles.
Who is she?
She owns the long, gorgeous veil of love,
And she has rotten in her bridal gown.
The Sun, alas, failed to penetrate-
into both of those two lone souls-
and that soaring, blue air was drained out of you.
But I am so full, full, so full-
that they are praying on the density of my tone.
They are praying on the density of my tone.
Happy remains,
Drawn remains,
Wise, silent remains,
you look like handsome, tasteful ghosts,
you appear in the stations of regular times,
you emerge in the suspicious spot of passing stars,
and the boring show of futile, stale fruits.
Oh, those people...
They are speculating on disasters-
around the worried concern of crossroads.
And just when a man should crash under the wheels of time,
a man should indeed crash,
they whistle, whistle, whistle to stop;
To stop-
the man who is passing by soaked trees…
Where do I come from?
I told my mom: “it is over now.”
I told her: “It always happens when you don’t expect,
We should send a condolence letter to the paper”
I salute you: Isolation of Solitude!
I donate you the whole room,
I know, those obscure clouds-
indicate the closeness of clear skies.
Only the last blast of flames knows
the bright secret of a candle’s life.
Let us believe,
let us believe in the beginning of the cold season,
let us believe in the ruin of the garden of dreams,
in unloaded, abandoned spades,
and in caged seeds.
Look!
Snow is falling outside…
Perhaps truth was those young hands,
They are now buried under the unending blow of snow.
But when spring makes love-
to the blue reflection of the Sky-
and the green stream of fresh grass-
flows in its veins-
they will flourish, my Beloved,
My sole Beloved.
Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season!
By: Forough Farokhzad
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani,
March 2006, Montreal
The poem is from the posthumous anthology Let us believe in the beginning of the Cold Season.
