Three Poems

Ahmad Shamlou (1925-2000)

Translated from the Persian by Sheida Dayani

The Secret

A secret was with me;

I told the mountain.

A secret was with me;

I told the well.

On the lengthy path,

Alone and lonesome,

I told the black horse

I told the stones…

With my old secret

At last I arrived.

I uttered no words

You uttered no words;

I was shedding tears

You were shedding tears.

Then I sealed my lips

You read from my eyes...

The Fish

Never has been my heart,

I think,

So crimson and warm:

At the worst seconds

Of this deadly night,

I feel,

Thousands of founts of sun

Spout with certitude

in my heart.

In every corner

Of this salt-desert of despair,

Thousands of vivacious woods,

I feel,

Grow sudden out of ground.

You! My lost certitude!

You runaway fish!

Slipping in and out

Of lakes of mirror!

A filtering pond am I;

Now with the sorcery of love,

Seek a way towards I

From the lakes of mirror!

Never has been my hand,

I think,

This gay and grand:

With a waterfall of crimson tear

in my eye

I feel,

Breathes a dusk-less sun of an anthem.

In every vein of mine

With every beat of my heart,

I feel,

Chimes now the awakening of a caravan.

She entered through the door one night

Nude as the water’s soul;

Her breasts: two fish,

Hands, holding a mirror,

Her hair: moss-smelling,

Twisted as moss.

At the threshold of despair,

Cried I:

“My found certitude!

Of you,

I will not let go of you.”

A Moon-Lit Night

(1973-74)

On a moon-lit night

Moon is in my dream

It takes me with it

Alley to alley,

Into the vineyards

Into the plum trees.

Valley to valley

Meadow to meadow

Behind the thickets

Where a night fairy

Fearing and trembling

Steps into the spring;

Her unruly hair

She begins combing…

On a moon-lit night

Moon is in my dream

It takes me to the

End of that valley

Where at night, the sole

Weeping willow tree

With her grace and charm

Stretches out her hand

So that drips a star

Like a raining drop,

Hanging from her branch

Instead of her crop…

On a moon-lit night

Moon is in my dream

It takes me with it

Out of the prison

Like a little moth

Into the dark night.

It takes me where the

Martyrs of the town

With lanterns of blood *

In the squares and streets

Cry until the dawn:

“Hey! Mr. Uncle!

Mr. vengeful man!

Are you drunk or dry?!

Wakened or asleep?!”

We are drunk and not

Martyrs of our town!

Asleep and awake

Martyrs of our town!

In the end one night

Moon will be rising

Over that mountain

Over the valley

And into the square,

Passing happily.

One night moon will come…

One night moon will come…

* In Persian literary and mystic traditions, butterflies and moths are in love with light, flames, and candles. They find their way to the source of light, and wander around it until they catch fire. Here, Shamlou indicates that the blood lanterns of the martyrs are the emancipating light that stimulate sacrifice.

[Translated from the Persian by Sheida Dayani]