Khosrow Goleh-sorkhi
Khosrow Goleh-sorkhi
Damoon
Our
great heart
Is
a sparrow wet
sitting on a tree at the corner
of a street,
Under
each tree-
aware of the axe,
are hundreds of thousands
of indigents.
O
thou! forest
O! if our heart couldst
but rest without fear
on thy dense damp ringlet!
O!
if but the entire streets of the city were
forests instead.
Lo!
the forest spreading in fog and rain!
O
thou! the comrade green!
On
thy vast roads covered with leaves,
On
thy meanderous roads,
Each
day,
Sits
a man awaiting-
a man tall as the
with eyes bright and hazel-
a man who since birth,
hast doth lovingly sung to the masses
of the city,
the flowing song of the forests
a man who is the creation of
thine
assembling
and thy woodfire
unsparing
has doth been to him
as the continuity of the sun
in seasons cold.
O
thou! the lion asleep!
O
thou! the mark upon martyrs' breasts!
over the mighty forearm of the freedom
fighter's path
which hast doth abandoned become
Write
not to the young RUSHES
thither this too wouldst wither
away!
O
thou! who doth remain green
with thoughts of rivers!
within your damp dawn,
which releases the perfume
of comradeship,
the forest awake
hast doth been shattered into blood-
What
hearts of impetuosity
that which the most green were of forests
have doth been broken.
O
thou! the shelter of watching ROOSTERS
O
thou! the forest spreading in the north!
within thine
air knotty and thick,
arenst'
those thunderous roars
the most corpulent trees?
Behold!
the wildest speech
is the movement
of leaves upon
the branches young
upon thy shoulders huge
assembled from the comradeship
of branches numerous standing put,
have doth but ashes remained-
the ashes of each flame
in our hearts burning flows.
Let
not the wind dishevel!
Let
not be plundered,
from thy shoulders
the ashes that are but of
the essence of
thy blood.
O
thou! forest; book of velvet poetry!
with letters,
soft and green-
Writest upon the eyes of the
clouds,
Writest upon the obsolete farms,
RAIN
RAIN.
A nameless poem
Borne
onto thy breast
the penetrating and potent wound
of thine
enemy,
O
thou, O! the forever standing
though never didst thou fall
' Tis
thy custom
though facing death,
yet standing tall
In
thee,
the songs of dagger and bloodshed
In
thee,
the seeking birds
In
thee,
the song of conquest,
Never
hadst thine eyes
been so bright
as now
Of
thy blood,
will be awoken within the masses' ire,
people overflow will
from far and near
towards Toopkhaneh,
bread and hunger thus
equally shared shall be.
O
thou! the standing
'tis thy death
that doth creates
'tis this,
to which
the enemy makes walls
These
passers-by
true yet oppressed,
these indigents
know not of thy Name, alas!
Once
they knowst,
will then
each drop of thy blood
become a sanctum.
These
masses thy name will sing
in each of their native song.
Thy
name;
the flag of
the Caspian is alive in thy name.
English
interpretation by: A. Behrang