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mosaafer (traveller)
Poem name : Pilgrim About sunset amid the tired presence of objects an expecting eye watching the volume of time and on the table the hue and cry of several new fruits Moved towards the vague side of death And the perfume of the garden over the carpet of leisure The wind bestowed to the smooth margin of life and the mind had picked up the illuminated side of the flower Like a fan And was fanning itself The pilgrim Disembarked from the bus. “What a pure sky!” And the continuation of the street of nostalgia carried him away It was evening One could hear the sound of the intelligence of herbs The pilgrim had come And was sitting on an easy chair near the lawn: “I am depressed, I am badly depressed, All the way I was thinking about a single subject and the color of mountainsides robbed my sense the lines of the road was lost in the sadness of plains What strange valleys!? And the horse – do you remember? It was white And grazed the green silence of the lawn like a pure word And then the strange colorful villages by the road and then tunnels I am depressed I am badly depressed And nothing else – Neither this fragrant minutes that grow silent on orange branch Nor the sincerity of this word that lies between the silences of two leaves of gillyflower No, nothing frees me from the silent onrush of the surroundings And I think That this rhythmical melodious sorrow will be heard Until eternity The pilgrim’s glance fell over the table “What pretty apples! Life thirsts for solitude.” And the host asked “What is beauty?” - “Beauty means the love-enchanted definition of images And love, only love It acquaints you with the warmth of an apple And love, only love Carried me to the width of sorrow of lives It took me to the possibility of flight - Did it take to the balsam of grief”? - The pure sound of elixir supplies the drink … And now it was night The lamp was lighted And they were drinking tea “Why are you depressed as if you are alone? And how silent! It seems to me That you suffer from the hidden veins of colors - By suffer I mean You are in love And think how lonely would be the little fish if she falls in love with the boundless blue of the sea? What a sad thin thought! And sadness is the faint simile of the look of an herb And sadness is a faint hint to rejection of unity of objects Blessed are plants that are in love with light And the swollen hand of light is over their shoulders No, union is impossible There is always a distance Although the curve of water serves a good pillow for water lily’s pleasant and brittle sleep There is always a distance One must fall in love Otherwise the whisper of surprise between two words Will be wasted And love Means journey to the illumination of solitary avoidance of objects And love Is the sound of gaps? The sound of gaps That is sunken in ambiguity No The sound of gaps that is clean like silver And turn opaque once they hear the word “naught” A lover is always lonely And the lover’s hand is in the brittle hand of minutes And he and the minutes go to the other side of the day And he and the minutes sleep over light And he and the minutes will bestow the best book of the world to the brook And they know well That no fish has ever Opened a thousand and one knots of a river and at midnights With the old boat of illumination They move in the rivers of guidance And advance up to the manifestation of surprise the disposition of your word Makes man pass from alleyways of fables What a fresh and sorrowful blood In the veins of such a tone! The courtyard was lighted And the wind was blowing And night’s blood flowed in the silence between two men “It is a clean solitary room How simple is its dimensions to ponder!? I feel badly depressed I don’t intend to sleep.” He walked to the window And sat down on a chair matted with a soft cushion: “Still I am traveling, I think There is a boat in the rivers of world And I – the pilgrim of that boat – have been singing for a thousand years the lively song of ancient sailors To the ears of the holes of seasons And I am advancing Where does the journey take me? Where will the footprints remain unfinished? And the string of my shoes will open By the soft fingers of leisure Where is my destination to spread a carpet To sit carefree And listen To the sound of the washing of a dish under the neighboring water tap? And beside which spring You will pause And the surface of the soul will be full of green leaves? One must drink wine And find passage in the youth of a shadow That is it Where is the direction of life? From which direction I shall reach the hoopoe? And listen, for the same word in the whole pilgrimage Will always shake the windows of sleep What is he singing into your hear in the whole path? Think well Where is the hidden nucleus of this mysterious melody? What is pressing your eyelid? What a warm and joyous weight? It wasn’t a long journey The passage of the swallow lessened the volume of time And in an interview between the wind and the gabbled roofs They hinted at the beginning of intelligence. At that moment that from the height of summer You were looking at gurgling Jajrud River What happened? That the starlings reaped your green sleep And the season was the season of harvest And with the sitting of a starling on the branch of a cypress tree The pages of the season’s book were turned “Life is Eve’s one minute of colorful negligence.” And its first page read as follows You were looking Between the cow and the lawn the mind of the wind was flowing. You were looking At the remembrance of mulberry on the season’s skin season The presence of a green cloak in the alfalfa Was repairing the scratch on the sensitive face Look, there is always a scratch on a sensitive face there is always something, such as the vigilance of dream Reaching soft of the death’s footsteps from behind and laying its hands over our shoulders And we can feel the warmth of its illuminated fingers Like a delicious poison We visit near the place of incident Do you remember Venice And over the calm canal? In that ringing quarrel between water and earth when time was visible from behind the prism the shaking of the boat shook your mind: The dust of familiarization always lies in the path of watching One must always walk with renewed breath (afresh??) And must blow So that the golden face of death will be wholly cleaned Where is the Renoos Rock (?) I am coming from a tree On whose bark the simple hands of nostalgia had left their print: “I wrote a line in remembrance of dejection.” Give me the wine You must hurry up I am coming back from a journey in an epic And like the river I flow the whole story of Sohrab and his (belated) balsam. The pilgrimage carried me to the gate of my childhood orchard And I stood So that my heart could rest I heard the fluttering sound And when the gate was opened I fell on the ground with the attack of truth And again under the sky of “Mazamir” In that pilgrimage to the bank of Babel River I recovered my sense The rhubarb had ceased its melody And when I listened carefully I heard the sound of weeping And several impatient rhubarbs Swinging on the wet branches of an oak And within the route of the pilgrimage the pure Christian monks Were pointing to the silent mantel of Prophet Jeremiah And I was loudly reading The Genesis And several Lebanese farmers Were sitting Under an ancient lotus tree And were counting the citrons on their citrus trees in their mind Beside the road the blind Iraqi kids Were looking at the Script of Hamurabi Tablet And I was reviewing the journals of the world as I journeyed The journey was quite smooth And from the tumult of industry all the journeys surface Was dim and dark And smelled after grease And empty wine bottles Crevices of instinct and impossible shades Were set beside each other on the journey’s soil In the way I could hear the coughing of tuberculosis patients coming from their homes The prostitutes were watching The bright crevices of jets In the towns blue sky And the children were pursuing the swallows The street’s garbage men were singing And great poets Were praying on migrating leaves And the distant path of pilgrimage continued through people and iron Towards the hidden gem of life And joined the wet nostalgia of a brook The static electricity of a fin With a familiarity of tune And boundlessness of a color The pilgrimage took me to tropic lands And under the shade of the sturdy green “Banians” how well I remember The sentence that entered the summer resort of my mind: Be wide and lonely and humble and firm! I am returning from my interview with the sun Where is the shadow …? But still one can hear the bewildered footstep of division of spring And the fragrance of reaping from the wind And the sense of touch is going to be senseless Behind the bust of the orange’s disposition Who knows at what point of season the stone of my solitude lies In this colorful struggle Still the jungle doesn’t know its numerous dimensions Still the leaf Is mounted on the first letter of the wind Still the man tells something to the brook And a stream of quarrel is flowing in the mind of the lawn And within the orb of the tree The echo of pigeon’s represents the vague presence of human behavior. I can hear the din of hubbub And I am the only one addressed by the winds of the world And the rivers of the word teach me The pure secret of disappearance To me only And I am the interpreter of the sparrows of Ganges Valley And Tibet’s mystic-looking earrings For the undecorated ears of damsels in Benares I have described it near the Serenat Road () Lay me on my shoulders O morning songs of Vedas Lay the whole weight of freshness For I Am warmed by my own words And O all olive trees of Palestinian soil Address me the density of your shadow To this lonely pilgrim who is returning for excursion at Mount Tour Fermented with Moses’s discourse with the burning mount But one-day dialogue will disappear And the dragonflies shall spread sensational whiteness on the highway of the air How many poems have been composed for this rhythmical sorrow!? But still somebody is standing under the tree But still a horseman is standing behind the city battlement Whose wet eyelid bears the weight of the sweet dream of “Qadessieh victory” Still the neighing of impatient Mogul horses Can be heard and from the solitude of alfalfa farms still the Yazd merchant still grows ravished and senseless from the scent of the Road of Spices and Indian food And near Hamoon you can still hear: “Evil has spread all over the world A thousand years elapsed The sound of the of the swimming was not heard and the image of the of damsels was not reflected in the river And halfway in my pilgrimage I was sitting by Jamna River Coast And was looking at the reflection of Taj Mahal over the water The marble-like survival of elixir moments And the progress of volume of life in death Two big wings: look Are flying towards the margin of the river’s soul strange sparks can be seen near your hands Come and illuminate the darkness of comprehension Because a single hint is enough Life is a soft knock At the Maccar Rock. And within the path of the birds of Garden of Ecstasy They washed away the dust of experience from my eyes They pointed to me the health of a cypress tree and I whispered warmly beside “Tal” The sentence of sensation As a tribute to illumination of disposition One must pass And accompany the journey of distant horizons And sometimes you must pitch your tent in the vein of a word One must pass And sometimes eat from the branch of a mulberry tree I was passing by the lyric And it was the season of abundance And under my feet the figures of sand were being kicked A woman heard She walked to the window, looked at the season She was at her prime And her primeval hand was softly plucking the dew Of minutes from the body of sensation of death I stood up And the sun of lyric had risen And was watching the evaporation of dreams And the knocking of a strange herb on the mind’s body I was counting We thought We are without margins We thought We were swimming In the taut text of mythological rhubarb And our existence represented only a few seconds of negligence We were at the fatal beginning of the herbs When the woman saw me I heard your footsteps, I thought It was the wind that was passing over old curtains I heard your footsteps near the objects: “Where is the feast of lines?” Look at fluctuation to my body’s expansion? From what direction shall I reach the big surface and fill my extension to the wet area of the glass full of surfaces of thirst? Where will be the life as precise as the shattering of a dish? And the secret of growth of mallow Will melt with the warmth of the horse’s mouth? And within the beautiful concentration of hands one day I heard the sound of reaping of a cluster And in which part of Earth was it That washed us in the warmth of an apple? Impossible sparks issued from our existence Where will be the fear of watching be tender And more unstable than the way of a bird towards death And how much light was there In the conversation of objects in the path leading to aspen! Which path will take me to the garden of distances? One must pass I can hear the sound of the wind, one must pass and I am a pilgrim O everlasting winds! Carry me to the expanse of formation of leaves Carry me to the briny childhood of streams And until the grape ripens Fill my shoes with the beautiful motion of prostration Life my minutes to the peak of the repeated pigeons In the white sky of instinct And convert my chance existence Into a pure lost communication near the tree And in the breath of solitude Shake up the openings of my comprehension Send me toward the kite of that day Carry me to the solitude of the dimensions of life and show me The soft presence of naught 1967 Babol, Spring |  |
