A window to see-
A window to hear-

A round window like an unending well:
It should reach to the blazing core of Earth.
And it should release into-
its gentle, lightly air.

A window that loads lonely, little hands-
with the nocturnal scent of generous stars.
A window that invites the sun-
to the glacial exile of blooms.

A window,
A window is enough for me.

I am coming from the land of puppets,
And from underneath shades of painted trees-
in the printed gardens of fiction books.

I am coming from-
arid seasons of thrill-
and barren years of romance,
from deserted lanes of innocence,
from the age of pastel faced letters.

I am coming from-
behind benches of a tired class.
And from that confusing time-
when I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board-
and terrified birds- fled from naked branches of the trees.

I arrive from beneath roots of carnivorous trees,
And my mind is still filled -with the fearful cries of dried butterflies-
under weighty volumes of pale, aged books.

When my trust was hung-
from the frail justice line of this town,
And in the streets, they were cutting off the head of my torch,
When they blind-folded the innocent eyes of my love,
When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams,
And when my life was nothing-
but the regular chant of a Grandfather clock,
I realized that I had to love,
I had to love madly.

A window is enough for me.
A window to the instance of light, insight and peace.

Now,
the little walnut tree-
that you had once known-
is so grown, grown, so grown,
that it can narrate the tale of wall-
to its young leaves.

Ask the name of The Redeemer from mirrors!

Don’t you see?
This trembling ground-
underneath your bare feet-
is lonelier than you.

The verdict of this ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes;
And these infected clouds and incessant blasts, perhaps,
stem from those sacred words.

My friend!
Don’t forget!
When you land on the moon,
engrave the date of the carnage-
of young flowers of this Earth-
on its sad, soft, wrinkled face.

Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die.
And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest,
a little plant, with four tiny leaves,
constantly grows.
I smell this plant.

A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope.
Is she the remnant of my youth?

A gentle god was taking nightly walks-
in the fresh air of the roofs.
Will I climb again, climb again-
the curious steepness of the stairs-
to greet him?

I feel that the time had left.
I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past.

I feel that in this stand,
there is only an unreal void, distancing my hair-
from the hands of a sad, stranger guest.

Talk to me!
And I reward you-
with the igniting love-
of a whole life.

And, I expect you nothing-
but the reflection of its birth-
in a glance of your eyes.

Talk to me!
Don’t you see?

In shelter of my window,
I am attached to the sun.
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montréal