Translated : by M. Alexandrian
won't speak to you
Of the earth sleeping in the rain.
For me, the praise of earth,
Is like disobeying the rain of your house
Since in winter also,
Near your window
I didn't tremble from the cold.
When I open the window
The shops hid in steam
No longer look ugly to me.
Believe me
I'm indebted to you
These days
For seeing my heart in the mirror.
You know my name,
And I cannot claim
Another name
For myself.
Again from the Sky...
The sky is blue again,
It is covered by black lines
Tomorrow
I must bestow you to scattered fragmented words.
A brown line on the plane tree
Belongs to the sun,
It is a full brown line
Resembling your tresses,
Which makes human survival on earth
More exuberant.
Among Odes...
Among those odes
And the violets which were trampled
During bombardment,
I need an ode
To mount a boat
And sail from the bombed town
To the river shore
And to carry the refugees wrapped in white bed-sheets
Into the house.
In the eternal sunset
The dead violets
Shined
On our palms.
The folk had gone to the other side of the river,
And the farms were watching us
How
We were out of business during war days.
A sketch of our bodies
Was printed on the wall
And it did not take long
For them to disappear
Under the shadow of falling bombs.
I was sitting
When the patient and humble bomb
Stepped into the cafe from the window.
Loving Roads
The loving roads
Led to the town through our hearts
*
The vegetable markets
- Void of celestial fruit -
Were drinking the cottages of fog.
Expecting the mosses of song
At the sunny paved road,
We were repeating the spring.
*
The loving roads
From our hearts up to the volcanoes of the leave,
To corridors bedecked with flowers, bushes and herbs,
To lengthy wars ready for peace,
Were asking the name of the night's latest offspring and blossoms.
*
In restaurants of silence
We had penetrated the age of intercession of odes,
Were melancholy people,
We had no opportunity to accept
The invitation of the wandering green oaks.
*
The loving roads
Were returning
To the autumn of mornings of life
- Foggy and old -
And our childhood innocence
was embroidered
On their garments.