My whole being is a dark chant which will carry you perpetuating you to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming in this chant I sighed you sighed in this chant I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.Life is perhaps a long street through which a woman holding a basket passes every dayLife is perhaps a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch life is perhaps a child returning home from school. Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love makings or the absent gaze of a passerby who takes off his hat to another passerby with a meaningless smile and a good morning .
Life is perhaps that enclosed moment when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes and it is in the feeling which I will put into the Moon’s impression and the Night’s perception.
In a room as big as loneliness my heart which is as big as love looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase at the sapling you planted in our garden and the song of canaries which sing to the size of a window.
Ah this is my lot this is my lot my lot is a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me I love your hands.
I will plant my hands in the garden I will grow I know I know I know and swallows will lay eggs in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.
I shall wear a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails there is an alley where the boys who were in live with me still loiter with the same unkempt hair thin necks and bony legs and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl who was blown away by the wind one night.
There is an alley which my heart has stolen from the streets of my childhood.
The journey of a form along the line of time inseminating the line of time with the form a form conscious of an image coming back from a feast in a mirror
And it is in this way that someone dies and someone lives on.
No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook which empties into a pool.
I know a sad little fairy who lives in an ocean and ever so softly plays her heart into a magic flute a sad little fairy who dies with one kiss each night and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.
Az Past O Bolande Targomeh, Page 19-21 By: Karim Emami