We've got to wait
for the snow to melt.
We've got to wait
for the bells of the umbrellas to bend.
The trees are
Still unfinished.
The papers' wings are tied to all this ice,
and also, are tied to ice the flies' soaked eyes,
and are tied to this frost the frogs' greenish smiles.
We've got to wait
for the pot of hyacinth to flourish
and the tray of Noruz to replenish.
Right now, no one sings
for the birthday of the twigs,
and no fluid tune hits the feathers of my wits.
It is silent, there is only silence.
And I yearn for the air of a whisper.
Just a whisper!
What shall I do?
We've got to wait
for the snow to melt.
We've got to wait
for the bells of umbrellas to bend.
And in this frozen, silent season,
I yearn for the air of a whisper...
Just a whisper!
What shall I do?
I can still paint.
I can still paint a colourful sparrow
on the white sheets of my lonely sorrow.
- Sohrab Sepehri -
1928 - 1980
translation by Maryam Dilmaghani
Sohrab Sepehri: The Painter of Rhymes
Labels: Sohrab Sepehri