Alongside the wind
By Khashayar Mostafavi
Translations by Buna Alkhas
From: Crimson Snow from Azure Skies: A Compendium of
Contemporary and Classical Persian Poetry, Page 51
A child sits in the
cradle of a hug,
Rocking from fear of
crying perhaps.
Mother is alone -
no, there is no father
He has gathered up
all his pride among his bullet clips.
He has gone, never
to return again unless wrapped inside
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| Photo By: Guy Le Querrec |
Uncle brought back a
pick-up truck - a gift from the war - After-shock stricken human bones. I have permission Until tomorrow, to name
them one by one, but
It’s a shame my
heart is constantly menstruating.
Mother is alone -
no, uncle is here -
I play with myself
and am frightened.
Just let my swollen
breasts gather up the saliva from the Tongues of the drivers, merchants, bakers
- oh father,
It is such a pity
that the mouths of all my would-be lovers Smell of chicken and rice, yoghurt
and onions;
And Uncle is worst
of all.
Mother is alone,
She says that not
all the men of the world are uncles. (Okay, I’ll call you father.) - Oh father, father, I am cold – No, I didn’t
mean anything by that - I just wanted to say the weather was getting cold.
Mother is alone.
Even the uncles have gone.
I fumble around
under the white sheets and at times,
Out of happiness, I
slide over to the window to see if the Uncle with the bunch of wildflowers is
still standing by the wall, enchanted by my pink slippers –
Or has he too gone
to hell?
It’s been windy all
night; on the roads, in the streets,
In my head.
And the good news is
that mother is no longer alone,
She should be at
God’s side by now.
And I am doing fine,
making the rounds from morning ‘til night. Pretending to spend a lifetime with
this one or That one. Too bad I didn’t know what a good thing this Crocodile
brand razorblade was and how nicely it rips Apart tissue and veins and nerves
and a few other places.
God, these few
imaginary places. Do I rip you apart as Well, or you me?
I am not alone here;
there are ants as well, with a whole Bunch of feet and a world of patience.
I am joyful; I love
everyone, even these silent ants who Busy themselves on my body and I am so
happy that the Sun has foolishly gone elsewhere to take care of office Business
and daily affairs…
By Khashayar Mostafavi
Translations by Buna Alkhas
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