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Forough Farrokhzad: The Sad Little Fairy

Remembrance of a Day
Dies Irae
The Shower of Your Hair
Portrait of Forough
Elegy, for her
Conquest of the Garden
Green Mirage
The bird was just a bird
Later on
My Beloved
The bird may die
The wind will take us away
Only the sound will last
The Wave
The Gift
Someone who is like no one
One day Ali told his mom


Those days are gone


Those days are gone.

Those entire, fine days,


Those days of fluid flights-

in the light heart of starry nights,


Those days of swing, swim, sway-

in the expanding river of greening pines,


Those days are gone.

Those entire, fine days-

are gone.


In those days,

My songs would boil, blast and rise

in every blink of my evading eyes,

in every flee of my prying soul,

in every crush of my flying mind.


Those days are gone,

Those entire fine days,

are gone.



In the snowy, dreary days,

behind my little window,

quiet but thrilled inside,

I was watching-

the white revolt of the backyard.

And there,

my soft, silken snow-

was falling down, heavy and slow

on the old ladder,

on the frail rope,

on the naked branches of the trees.


And I was thinking of tomorrow.

Oh… tomorrow,

that slippery, pale probe:

It would begin with the cracking noise of mother’s robe

emerging in the cold sensation of lights, 

fading in that perplexing shape of colorful sights.

taking over the last remains of my quiet night.




In a dozing heat, in hypnotizing calm,

Over the corner, far from my mom,

I was erasing teacher’s note from my old homework.


After the white blow of snow,

I would wander sad in the yard,

burying my dead, frozen doves.


Those days are gone,

Those entire fine days,

Those days of marvel and lure

Those days of confound of conscience


In those days, every shade had its own secret life,

In those days, every gate would reach to a treasure isle.

In those days, the whole world was fitting in the vastness of my daze.


Those days are gone,

Those entire fine days-

are gone.


Those days of festivity and dance-

Those days of wild laugh and romance.


Those days of race, swing and joy-

Those nights of play, tale and toy,

Those days are gone.



Those days, bazaar was confined in hundreds of scents:

in sharp smell of fish and coffee,

in solid vapor of opium.


Bazaar was expanding, escalating and inflating under heavy steps,

And it would finally sleep inside eyes of clockwork dolls.


Bazaar was my mom who was running so fast,

towards the stage of vibrating lights.


Bazaar was that rain:

pouring, moving, pouring

in my mind.


Those days are gone,

Those entire fine days

are gone



Those days of wonder in bouncy puzzles of shapes,

Those days of cautious meets with the heat of bloated veins,

Those days of shyness, of blenching face:

“A shaking hand,

a folded note and a rose-

would call another hand,

to the shady shelter of our broken fence…”



Those days of truth, of vision, of dream,

Those days of affirming love, just in a slight beam:

“In warm, misty days,

we were singing our love for the heart of cloudy lanes-

for the remote side of innocent woods…”


And love was just that confusing feel,

of growing in vastness, of fainting in darkness-

and of  being captured in an endless wink.


Those days are gone.

Those entire fine days-

are gone.




Those days,

are decayed, dried like lifeless plants-

under rebounds of sun, under the fall of rains-

under the sway of winds.


And those quiet lanes,

with their soaring, brave pines-

are waned in the wax of crowded towns.



that girl,

who was blushing her face with petals of rose,

who was daydreaming of all heroes of prose,

and believed in the magic land of the fairy tales,

is now a lonely woman.


That girl is now,

only a lonely woman.



By Forough Farrokhzad

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, April 2006, Montreal


The poem is from the anthology Tavaloddy Digar (Rebirth).