marg-e-rang (the death of colours)
Poem name : WALL

The wound of night was turning pale

The wound of night was turning pale
In the desert that I was marching,
Neither a bird’s wing disturbed the clear air
Nor the sound of my footsteps like other nights
Added to the sound of my former steps.

To raise a solid and firm wall around me
I brought from distance, rocks solid and heavy, bare footed.
I built a lofty wall in that place
To hide everything that to my eye was base
And to shut the passage to attacking giants
That in my mind I had visualized.

Days and nights rolled on.
I was stalled exhausted by my labor,
Neither regret kindled the fire of sweet hope in my veins
Nor my bygone recollections bothered me.
But behind the wall my fancy
Was building dark images of giants.
And in smoke color
He designed outlines of devil

Until one night like other silent nights,
The whole wall crumbled down
And my regret was mixed with surprise.

And my regret was mixed with surprise