POETRY

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