Dear all,
This is a translation I did of Mohsen Namjoo’s lyrics for his powerful song “The eighties“. I’d like to thank IRANdokht and Nazy Kaviani for their precious input. Enjoy.
Azadeh
The Eighties
By Mohsen Namjoo
The day Mother bought the school bag
Red, trunk type, first year, with key
The day principle of geometry was hard to solve
Teacher from Hamadan, hundred caravans of martyrs
The day that wants soul of childhood dead
The day that regret’s incumbent upon me when high.
The day that was forgotten
The day that was remembered
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind
It’s always been this way, oh my, it’s always been this way.
The day the graphic ruler broke in the middle of reprimand
The day the house bells were Trumpet of Resurrection indeed.
The day of grasp of contradiction, discrimination, pride, preference
The day of the stain of your eye’s salt water on the typo.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day of the envy of a bar-fix in the arm’s thin mind
The day of the envy of being a fix-friend in the school’s team
The day of propagation of unlearned speeches
The day of exciting narration of the film Hey Joe.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind.
The day neighbour’s daughter shit on you
The day neighbouring country ripped your father
The day death came in through the window of the locked door
The day there were two channels, Channel One went to war
From Channel Two came Vatou-Vatou.
The day that went with the wind
The day that was remembered
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day that wants soul of childhood dead
The day that regret’s incumbent upon me when high
The day that fire has no use
Vaporise the opium on your hot exhalation
The day that brazier has no use
Plant the opium pipe on your chest.
The day that went with the wind
The day that blew it in the wind
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day leader was tank-stricken teen
The day short sleeve was kick in the loin
The day that was beard, the day shirt’s armpit torn,
the day collar was dirty out of extreme faith
The day Douglas was not yet Michael, but Kirk.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew it in the wind
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day lust was still in the suburb
The day that in the metaphor of sky, drop was sea
The day the world would come to an end
Every Friday evening of the week
Weekly report, after the big screen film
(The day the last pleasure was weekly report.)
The day that was forgotten
The day that was remembered
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day that was cold
Chess game and backgammon were non-kosher
The only kosher was this yellow mien
The only kosher was, in short, opium and powder.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind.
The day in the memory of the great
Visits were the heart of pain
The day that was the end, was garrison, was not Tehran,
The street was the field of the free.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind
The big city that’s one day ruled by the boor.
The day that TV interval was the lone picture of the lost
It was not Iran, it was the cradle of the thirsty
The day that the Capital was the field of the free
Was not field, was street, was garrison.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew it in the wind.
The day Chamran slept quietly on Parkway
The day
Fawzia was martyred in Karbala
The day Shah left, Republic became one-way street
The day the only way to Freedom was through Revolution
The day that was moonlight, was mirage, was pure mirage
That drink I took at the age of eight by St-Masoumeh’s,
Mother had bought it, was green, was Seven-up.
Alas, what did the spirit of times do to us
Alas, what gift did the teacher give us.
Ketekolovitz designs, Ghodsi Ghazi-Nour
The spirit of proletarian world
The staircase, intense anger of the poor snow-sweeper
Frozen finger of the paper boy
The ice broken with a finger’s touch
Flowing water, furious flood
Frustration with five-thousand circulation.
It rained microphones from the sky, by force
The idiot in his turn swallowed someone, by mistake
The day the ear was the cheapest goods
The story was the cliché of a bad-hearted rich.
The day that was forgotten
The day that blew in the wind.
The girl named Nell
In the bustle of the city
Was in search of eternal Eden, Paradise,
Behind the hair fallen on her brother’s eye
Or the hair detached from Grandfather’s neck
Inside the carriage wheel
Inside the carriage wheel’s tyre tread
inside the carriage wheel’s very tyre tread
Inside the rotation of the carriage wheel’s very tyre tread
Inside the rotating wheel of so many games of the times.
We suffered so much in these thirty years
Only to have suffered. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
