And now, Majid,
You’ve ended here
Leaning back in a rocking chair
With a baby’s swing nearby–
A gift you bought for Âzad
And now should go to Good Will.
What did you want
And where have you gotten?
You started out from a baby’s swing
And now you have to die
In this rocking chair
Like an old man.
No! I don’t believe this.
For the others
It was the span of one life
But for me
The span of one pace,
Only enough to get up
And look outside
From this quiet porch:
I began from the middle of that road
Hoping to get somewhere.
Alas!
The crumb-pecking birds betrayed me
And the near-sighted eyes crushed my wings.
Bewildered, I reached here
And now I do not know what to tell Âzad
Who is growing from within me
In search of light.
O poetry! I take refuge in you
Hold my hands
Spread my wings
So that from this quiet porch
I might attract the gaze of a woman smiling at me
From the lighted window of my adolescence.
Are these clouds looking at me?
They are as wet as your words
And take different shapes
In my eyes.
O you white cloud!
I find in you my father
Who is gazing at me
With confidence.
O you black cloud!
I find in you my sister
Who let me weep
On her shoulder.
Why can’t those shade trees
Be the hiding place of my childhood?
Why can’t these whispering sounds
Be the footsteps of my intimate girl?
Why can’t the dancing of shadows on the wall
Be my new game?
Let me make a bird shadow with my hands
It will carry me from this quiet porch
To the closed windows.
Hello! my neighbor
Hello! my neighbor
No!
No one hears me
Why should I write poetry?
Let me cry.
I spit on you and your world
I spit on you and your world
And with these near-sighted eyes
I’ll go deep into the desert
And like Asghar Aqa
Near the hill
I will build a wall
And make a farm
And dig a well
And grow wheat
And bake wheat bread
And eat wheat bread
And get lost far away
Where early man began
And alone and single-handed
I will build a new civilization.
Someone is consumed
Someone is consumed
Someone laughing as he weeps
Someone weeping as he laughs
Someone has reached the end of the road.
There is no reason to complain
The bus is gone
And I am left alone
in a remote neighborhood.
I begin again
How good are the ends of the roads!
How good are the ends of the roads!
Small houses
And narrow alleys
And crooked trees
And desert
And hills
and mountains
And valleys
What a fresh smell of earth!
I put my hands in my pockets
Button my jacket
And start to walk
The night is half over
Is there a refuge in this quiet desert?
I hear Azad crying
I get up and from my quiet porch
Look inside the room
Why can’t it be?
Why can’t it be?
It always begins with the end of the road.
It always begins with the end of the road.
It always begins with the end of the road.
December 5, 1988