esta noite em claro é para ti
branca como cada folha vazia
ou ainda igual a este regresso
ao arquear do teu sono a mão

apaga a luz e é por ti que desliza
na pele sem temor de futuros
incertos nem morte
nunca um planeta ardeu tão alto

há velas na noite e elas conduzem
àquele espaço azul entre as nuvens
o segredo por entre os acordes
do teu cabelo murmura o nome da rosa

com quantos braços deve um homem
adormecer no luar dos teus olhos
com quantas vitórias sorrir
com quanta destreza te amar.


You who balk at the smell of salt on every meal.
You who will not have that third glass of wine.
You who never ate anything that did not come from a shelf.
You who read the mainstream media to justify your gutless days.
You who sell your grandchildren's future for a dime and another day.
You who know precious little yet jeer at those who know different.
You whose notions of safety and freedom would make a neanderthal drop dead with multiple stomach ulcers from laughing so hard.
You who deny the broader meaning of life, yet claim that I do not live.
You who hide in plain view accusing others of hiding under a bed.
You fucks, how can you mistake preparation for fear?


Conquest of the Garden

The crow that flew over us and sank-
in the confusion of a vagabond cloud;
The crow that swiftly crossed-
the extent of the sphere-
like a short arrow-
will tell about us-

in the town.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I, 
looked through the oblique crack of the wall-
and saw The Garden.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
reached for the trembling branch of The Tree-
and picked the apple.

Everybody is scared.
Everybody is scared but you and I,
together joined lights, mirrors and water-
and feared never.

For you and I,
it is not about a frail union of two names-
in the aged pages of a registrar notebook.
It is about my fortunate locks-
and the burning stroke of your kiss.

For you and I,
it is about the imminence of our skins-
in the sacred wellspring of lightly streams,
swiftly sliding -
over the waterfalls and the hills.

And, it is about the fountain’s songs-
its fleeting flight, its short, silvery life.
You and I, in the core of a darkened night,
in the fluid freshness of forests,
on the peak of shielding mounts,
and in a freezing fearful sea-
asked young, golden eagles-
what we ought to do.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that we pierced-
into the silent dream of Phoenix.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
In the prairies and the plains-
reached to the glittering roots-
of Truth.

Everybody knows.
Now, everybody knows that you and I,
in an endless instant,
conquered the entirety of Eternity.

For you and I,
It is not about a shaking whisper in the dark.
It is about Day and its invading spark.
It is about a breeze over the fertile side.
It is about birth, evolution and pride.
It is about burning every futile piece-
in the garnet core of the flames.
And it is about our hands-
that contrived a bridge, concrete and bright,
over the tear of night.

Come to the turf! Come to the turf-
and call my name! Call my name-
with a choral of white lilies-
like a gazelle who calls his mate.

The shades of dusk-
are floating in their veiled sorrow.
And doves, from the windows of their white tower-
are looking at Earth.

Come to the turf!

- Forough Farrokhzad
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006.