Letters


I opened your letters
And I gave them up to the air,
That they might become spring clouds,
That letters of memories
Might weep over the hills,
That they might weep springs and rivers.
That the letters might weep over us.

Last night I told a story
Of you to the wild wind.
In memory of you I recited from memory
A verse to the streams,
That the water might bear it away
And tell it to the rivers,
That the wind might bear it away
And sing it to the plains.

Last night under the rain
I walked road by road in my thoughts.
Your tresses strand by strand,
In my thoughts I walked, braiding strands.
The kisses that had not been planted on your lips
-- Along, all along the road,
Along the edge, the edge of the stream --
I walked, planting them in the ground.
So that, ever following in my footsteps
-- Along, all along the road,
On the edge, the edge of the stream --
Kisses might grow like daisies,
Kisses might grow like wild mint.

Last night it rained and rained.
The water was too much for the river to hold.
Last night my loneliness
Was too much for me alone to hold . . .

Last night the April rain
Washed the footprints from the ground.
The wound in my heart grew worse,
Because it washed away the imprint of your foot.
Last night I wandered the streets in vain,
Like a hunter who has lost the trail I searched . . .

Last night the world was all water,
The sky was refreshed,
The ground was refreshed.
But I, with your name on my lips,
All alone like the parched land
I burned up under the rain.


                                                          Translated by, Judith M. Wilks





Frostblighted spring

The harbinger of the cold killed the orchard, The rising of the cold killed a world, The blind regiment of the cold Killed clear-eyed justice - O God, When will spring be here?

The breath of passion has expired, The bird of inspiration died still caged, The wind laughs at the death of the bud, The cry for help died in the rescuer's prudence - O God, When will spring be here?

The earth is bare and the road slick, The old man lost and the infant crying, The sapling in the orchard of fruitful fall Is the bier of the assassination victim - O God, When will spring be here?

When will the angel in a white robe Attend the banquet of the desperate? When will the hot blood of hope Course through the dry channels of the arteries? - O God, When will spring be here?

In my head there is a parasol of snow and rain, In my body a wounded soul is weeping, The days of my life Are cloistered nights, The spring of my life Is ever winter - O God, When will spring be here?

Unedited lies the book of fate, Unplanned the ways and means, Life clutches at the skirts of destiny, A nation clutches at the skirts of God - O God, When will spring be here?


                                                          Translated by John R. Perry





Gulrukhsor


You They killed with treachery and bullets.
Me They killed with long humiliation.
You They buried in a public ceremony.
Me They buried in the anger of the public.


                                                          Translated by John R. Perry