Come to the meadow, the grand meadow and call me, from behind the breaths of silk-tasselled acacias just like the deer calls its mate.
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Forough Farrokhzad
26 posts
Forough Farrokhzad
@ForoughFarrokh
Iranian modernist poet, b. 5th Jan 1935, d. 14th Feb 1967. Probably the most famous woman in the history of Persian literature.
Katılım Nisan 2012
30 Takip Edilen104 Takipçiler
I am talking about our loving hands which have built across nights a bridge of the message of perfume and light and breeze.
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I am not talking about timorous whispering in the dark. I am talking about daytime and open windows and fresh air.
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...in the embarrassed look of a nameless flower, and we found permanence in an endless moment when two suns stared at each other.
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Everyone knows, everyone knows we have found our way into the cold quiet dream of phoenixes: we found truth in the garden...
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There is an alley, where the boys who were in love with me, still loiter with the same unkempt hair, thin necks and bony legs
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and the young eagles on that strange overwhelming mountain what should be done.
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We asked wild rabbits one night in that green flowing forest and shells full of pearls in that turbulent cold-blooded sea
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...like fish scales in the water. I am talking about the silvery life of a song which a small fountain sings at dawn.
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I'm talking about my fortunate tresses with the burnt anemone of your kiss and the intimacy of our bodies and the glow of our nakedness...
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I am not talking about the flimsy linking of two names and embracing in the old pages of a ledger.
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Everyone is afraid everyone is afraid, but you and I joined with the lamp and water and mirror and we were not afraid.
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...and that we have plucked the apple from that playful, hard to reach branch.
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Everyone knows, everyone knows that you and I have seen the garden from that cold sullen window...
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Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love-makings...
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Life is perhaps a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch.
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Life is perhaps a long street through which a woman holding a basket passes every day.
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My lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories and dying in the grief of a voice that tells me I love your hands.
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My lot is going down a flight of disused stairs to regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia.
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