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]