برف When Winter Comes

برف

 
 

پهنای این ملافه از چين تا ماچين

و    بر تمام آن برف   باريده
چرا نمی‌رسيم
جز لنگه گوشواره‌ای
بر اين سپيدی ردی نيست
نه درختی هست نه خرگوشی ، ستاره‌ای
كجاييم
گوشواره را كه انداختي در كشو
ملافه ها را در سبد
و تاريكي را تكاندي از ايوان
مرده ام کمی کنار دست‌هایت 
در انتهاي شبي كه آمده بودم
 
بوي جنگل مي آمد
اما تمام راهها را پوشانده بود
برفي كه مي باريد
مي بارد، مي پوشاند هنوز...
 

When Winter Comes

When winter comes 
I will look in the mirror and know myself again. 
On fire with ideas, my books were burning.
My daughter came to me in dreams, a deer running,
a deer that had me flee to the mountains.
Well, I can hug those mountains,
see how they nestle in my arms?
 
There was nothing to be afraid of after all.
The scale of these things is just a matter of perspective,
and even when we fall, we rise up again,
the sea looks calmer,
the fluffy white dog is back on its lead.
  
So don't berate me,  
don't blame me,
don't beat me up about it,
don't make me weep blood.  
Count the passing years on your fingers, 
they are galloping by like a wild, dark horse
and the only thing at the end of that path is winter.
 
When winter comes 
we can go in one of two directions,
we can get lost
or we can find ourselves again. 
I shouldn't have been frightened, 
I should have said, why torture yourself?
 
So that those shadows melt away leaving just me in the mirror again.
 

Notes on the literal translation:

[1] In this poem constant switch between I/you, can be interpreted either as someone else or the poet speaking to herself

[2] This is an image of censorship/ an image of someone who is only warmed by the fire of their burning books around them

[3] Jasmine is the name of Azita’s daughter

[4] The idea that when you see the stones from far they seem frightening but from close there’s nothing to be afraid of – when the sight of something is more dreamlike, connected to her daughter and to the dreamlike image of a deer running, it’s no longer frightening

[5] Image of years passing like a horse that’s run away – black years – the years have run away quickly

[6] The people in the mirror are the demons we invent for ourselves, the images we create of ourselves and that we don’t like /often you hurt yourself more than anyone

Elhum Shakerifar, Literal Translator

Original Poem by

Azita Ghahreman

Translated by

Elhum Shakerifar with Maura Dooley Language

Farsi

Country

Iran