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marg-e-rang (the death of colours)
Poem name : WALL The wound of night was turning pale The wound of night was turning paleIn 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 |  |
