The Other Side of the Purple Waves

12.11.2011 - 23:15

Translated by: Dr: Sharif Fyez

On my back, I carry a heavy knapsack

on perilous trails

I come from a great land, in whose streets

the sun is a common currency

And on the high towers of my land

the torch of freedom is green

And poplars in the gardens of my land

touch the stars of love

I come from a great land, where I am a stranger

and speak a strange language

I don’t know the language of the gun,

the red bullets and the blood track

And the columns of smoke, blood and explosion

collide with the rhythms of my poems

The rhythms of my poems do not rhyme with

the metallic syllables of rifles and tanks

The rhythms of my poems come from my vibrant soul

The rhythms of my poems respire

in the growth of a flower in a pot

in the dance of a bough in the garden

in the song of a child in the school

in the smile of a star in the sky

The rhythms of my poems come from

the brightness of a light in darkness

the murmur of a spring in a mountain

the warbling of a bird in a forest

the dance of a lily in a stream

I come from a great land, where newspapers

are printed with the ink of the sun

And in the darkest ages of history, one can turn them

into a light to brighten the orchard’s mind

to see the flowers of truth.

I come from a great land, where newspapers

have taken over the realm of lies

Therefore, I long for a night-letter

For long I haven’t seen the great figure of truth

in its small mirrors

For long I have seen people buying from the stands

lies in bundles to communicate with lies

and to drown themselves in lies

For long I have seen many poets sailing their paper boats

on the newspapers’ muddy shores

For long I have seen the guardians of the blank verse

standing on the colorful gray towers of infamous letters

measuring the summer heat of jealousy

With borrowed helmets, they have been striking their swords

at all that is lyrical and

throwing stones at the sublime steeple of couplets

And with an unclean prayer renouncing

the permanent purity of prayer

For long I have seen one who once swelled his black throat

with the night’s strings echoes

letting his voice ring in the sacred spring of the sun

For long I have seen the city sky losing its moon coin in a mist

And the stars, the sky’s virgins, anointed their eyes

with the sunset salve

And nobody knows where the sun has gone

as if that golden boat has hit a huge black rock

at the far end of the purple waves

and dark specters have carried the coffin of its name

to the broken shore of the south.

The windows’ close-minded night

is a stranger to the delicate passing of light

And the shy girls sitting by their lanterns

watch the fall figure of the wind

from behind the seven curtains of darkness

And the shy girls sitting by their lanterns wash

their permanent veil of modesty

in the pitch spring water

And the children hang their smile by the silk ribbon of their tresses.

I am going

going

going.

And in the most inaccessible moments of freedom

I pour on my face a handful of water

from the most distant spring

that flows from the most distant mountain

And I tie my sad lyrics to the wings of white pigeons

and open the sail of my bosom

in the direction of mountain gusts

until the settled particles of this wild civilization

go away from the thin vessels of my thought.

Here all the birds know that the fall with its yellow lash of bigotry

has silenced the green song of blooming

on the tongues of grass, bushes and trees

And the milk of life is being poisoned

in the white thought in the breast of the green moments.

And the budding babies from the lap of the tree mother

fall on the ground.

Here all the birds know that the tall Lady Spring

in the market places of the jungle

has auctioned its green garb to the fall winds

Oh wind, wind, wind!

When these wild loose horses, with their scruffy manes,

neigh in life’s green valleys

the pain of green branches

fill my troubled mind’s mirrors

The mirrors of my troubled mind

paint the hard concept of the stone.

I am going, going, going and take my life with me --

this dark space of my rented room.

And I know that none in this city

will ever say to another one: May you come back!

I am going, going, going and sailing the boat of my steps

on the green ocean deserts.

And I give my hands to the tall branches of the garden

so that with the nocturnal prayer of the tree

I may embrace the sky

And I will talk to love in the language of the loneliest flower.

And I will take water to watch the desert and

fly the pigeons of my voice

over the rooftop of the sun’s pigeon tower.

And with the red throat of anemones

I will sing a song for martyrdom and for faith and

for the capture of the mountain, desert, valley, and river

I will saddle the white horses of memory.

I am hearing the roar of the laughter of ruthlessness

from the wounded throat of the blind streets.

I know misery and breathe loneliness.

Misery is running through my veins,

Misery is my permanent twin brother.

Misery puts on my shoes and walks with my feet.

Misery plays chess with me and

I have never told him: Shoo!

Misery is in my house

Misery is playing with my only child and steals its bread

Misery has given to me its blind eyes as a gift.

And I see the world with its blind eyes.

Misery is singing its poems from my throat

And writes at the end of each poem:

“Partaw Naderi”

I feel homesick for the sun

If perchance you see him

ask him if someday he can enter my house

with a glowing face from light.

I will sacrifice the black sheep of expectation.

I will no longer care for the benefit of these shady flowers.

For how long should I pound my fists

on the chest of the brutality wall?

For how long should the horizons silver their mirrors

from the blood of my hands?

I feel homesick for the sun.

For a long time every day

I have been turning the pages of

the dictionary of my life’s moments

And I see the entries have new ID cards and

they have received permits to live in the land of

the new meanings and odd concepts.

For example, the red apple means

the clotting of the red blood cells.

The sun is a Rustem in a dungeon who has passed out

by guffaws of the demon of death

Life is a repugnant leftover bulging out of the death’s mouth

Democracy rots in the gun’s barrel and it is so great

that it is measured with the expansion

of a bullet flight.

Luck is a lock on the gate of the magic city

whose key leads one to a great misery

in the deepest pit of vileness.

I feel homesick for the sun.

I will return to my great land.

Kabul, 1993

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