My translation of a poem by daneshjoo. The original poem in Farsi was posted here: http://iranian.com/main/blog/daneshjoo-39
Why are you senseless and silent?
Epoch of life has many seasons,
in this tablet that you see, thousands of patterns at work,
white, yellow, and blue color; and void of color.
Yes! Life is a sleep, full of dreams.
Sometimes filled with greens and flowers, an abode akin to a blooming garden,
Sometimes like dry and withering branches,
enslaved by January’s cold, imprisoned by winters.
In which one of life’s seasons’ do you live now?
In what color you’re covered in paint now?
*****
Sometimes life’s Sitar plays a blissful tone,
and sometimes melancholic, depressing, and nostalgic.
In what part of life are you now?
With which of its melodies are you now confounded, spellbounded?
*****
Sometimes it’s a beautiful legend,
like a joyful wave amongst many weaves in the sea,
sometimes brimmed with hope, seminary of Venus;
joy and delight everywhere and a spectacle of the sun,
sometimes darker than ominous clouds, bereaved and lethargic,
in its hands arrows and sword, and its message bond and chain.
In what part of life do you live now?
Which one of its facets do you see, why so fond of this visage?
*****
Sometimes like a warm kiss taken from the beloved’s face,
sometimes like a life-eroding sorrow after the bitter death of a child,
sometimes sweet, like a colorful wine from the hands of a tapster,
sometimes like a life-burning poison from the hands of an old friend.
In what part of life do you live now?
From which of its partakes are you drunk now?
*****
Now, this life is cold,
moaning rises from every place,
despair outside, grief and pain within,
in the palate of thieves and cowards.
As you’d say, its arbitrator is dumb,
its restraints, commands, and decrees are in the hands of a wondering little man,
from its cruelty the world is shaking, from its ignorance nectars are bitter,
and when you see its rulings,
it’s more farcical than Bukhara’s judge’s flaccid commands.
Whose melodies you’re now listening to?
Why are you senseless and silent?
By whose orders you sit?
By whose commands you rise?
Footnote: See here for the original Farsi poem by ‘daneshjoo’.
