Let's not soil the water

Let's not soil the water

Perhaps a pigeon is drinking down there
Or a thrush dipping its wing by a far thicket
Or a pitcher being filled in a village.

Let's not soil the water.
This stream is perhaps running to a white aspen
To sooth a lonely heart.
A dervish may have dipped his dry bread there.

A lovely lady has come to the stream.
Let's not soil the water.
Beauty is doubled.

Sweet water!
Clear stream!
People are so affable there!
May their streams bubble!
And their cows produce abundant milk!
Never have I visited their village.
Their hedges must bear God's footprints.
There, moonshine illuminates the expanse of speech.
No doubt, the fences are low in yonder village.
And its inhabitants know what peonies are.
No doubt, blue is blue there.

A bud blossoms! People know it.
What a glorious village it must be!
May its alleyways overflow with music!
The people living by the stream understand water.
They did not soil it
Nor should we.

I shall build a boat

I shall build a boat
I shall cast it in the water
I shall sail away from this strange earth
Where no one awaken the heroes in the wood of love

A boat empty of net
And longing heart for pearls
I shall continue sailing
Neither I shall loose my heart for the blues
Nor for the mermaids who emerge from the water
To spread their charm from their locks
On the shining solitude of fishermen

I shall continue sailing
I shall continue singing
“One should sail away, sail away.”
The man in that town had no myth
The woman in that town was not as brimful as a cluster of grapes

No hall mirror repeated joys
Not even puddles reflected a torch
One should sail away, sail away
Night has sung its song
Now it is the turn of windows

I shall continue sailing
I shall continue singing

Beyond the seas there is a town
In which windows open to manifestation
There rooftops quarter pigeons that looks at the jets of human intelligence
In the hand of each 10-year-old child a branch of knowledge lies
The townsfolk took at hedges
As if they look at a flame, a tender dream
Earth hears the music of your feeling
And the fluttering sound of mythological birds are heard in the wind

Beyond the seas there is a town
Where the sun is as wide as the eyes of early-risers
Poets inherit water, wisdom and light

Beyond the seas there is a town!
One must build a boat...

Address

"Where's the friend's house"?
asked a horseman at dawn
The sky paused.
To the dark sands, the passer-by gave the twig of light
between his lips.
Pointing to a white poplar, he said:
Before you reach the tree
There is an orchard aisle greener than God's dream
Where love is as blue as the Wings of Honesty
Walk to the end of the alley,
emerging from beyond Maturity.
Turn towards the Flower of Solitude
Two steps to the flower
Stay by the eternal fountain of the earth's myths
Then a lucid fear will encompass you.
In the fluid sincerity of space, you will hear a rustle
You will see child
On a tall plane tree, picking a young bird
from the Nest of Light
Ask him
Where the friend's house is?

Mirage

The sun is shining, the plain how wide!
But void of herbs and trees, it is barren,
Except crows crowing at every side
Every sound has departed from this plain
A dark spot trembles from afar, a blot,
Behind a thick veil of dust,
But when you advance and gaze at the spot
You see a man marching in the dust
Tired from labor his body is in stress,
Besides, his body by dust is surrounded,
From thirst his throat is dry. In that place
His bare feet by thorns are wounded
As he advances in the waste on and on
He can see a sea of water in the rim,
But when eyeing father in the horizon
It occurs to him that it is a dream.

Without Warf and Woof

In the moments of awakening
My body slid beside a roaring river
A bright bird descended
And picked up my bewildered smile and flew away
A cloud appeared
And drank the moisture of my tears in its transparent haste
A naked and boundless breeze started to blow
That disturbed the lines of my face and passed
An illuminating tree
Devoured by body my its black root
A storm arrived
And robbed my footprints

I cast my look at the roaring river
An image broke
A dream was disturbed

The Fishes Convey a Message

I had gone to the courtyard pool
Perhaps to see the reflection of my solitude.
The pool was empty.
The fishes said:
"The trees are not at all to blame.
It was a hot summer noon.
The Bright Son of Water sat by the pool.
And the Sun's Eagle pounced down, taking him away."
Cursed be our ignorance of oxygen!
From our scales, shine vanished, it did.
But that blaze, the red coronation
In the water, gave us eyes
When the wind stirred behind
The clay parapets of our sleep.
A peephole on paradise!
Should you see God in the Heartbeats of the Garden, Hasten to say:
The fish pond is without water.
The wind was visiting the plane tree.
I was on my way to God.

Call of Beginnings

I feel sombre as a piece of cloud
When I see Huri the next-door mature lass
Studying theology
Beneath a rare elm tree.
There are also things, moments charged with zenith.
(For instance, I saw a poetess
So enchanted by the space
That the sky laid eggs in her eyes.
And on a certain night
A man asked:
“How far is it to the sunrise of grapes?”)
I should go tonight.
I should carry with me the suitcase
That holds as much room as the robe of my solitude.
And set off
Where mythical trees are visible
Towards that wordless vastness that keeps calling me.
Again someone called me by name “Sohrab”.
Where are my shoes?

The Murmuring Feathers

The snow has not yet thawed.
The reverse lotuses of umbrellas have not yet closed.
Trees are not yet perfect.
Beneath the snow, the paper's desire to float in the wind.
The wet sight in the insect's eyes
And the rise of a frog's head out of the Horizon of Life's Perception.
Our trays are not yet filled with words about samosa and the New Year's Eva.
In a climate where the growth of a stalk makes no echo
Nor can the chant of a feather be heard from within a chink in the snow's verse
I hunger for murmur.
The fowl has not yet croaked on the delirious fence of March.
What shall I do then
I who hunger for murmur
In the barest chantless season of the year?
I had better rise
Pick my brush
And paint a fowl on the Canvas of my solitude.

Nostalgia

The moon is hovering over the village.
Its inhabitants are asleep.
On this terraced-roof, I smell the adobe of nostalgia.
The light in neighbour's garden is on.
Mine i soff.
The moonlight is shining on a plateful of cucumbers, on the water pitcher.
Frogs are croaking.
An owl is hooting.
The mountain is nearby: behind the maples behind the service trees.
And the desert is visible.
Rocks are not visible, flowerets are not visible.
From afar, shadows are visible like water's solitude, like God's song.
It must be midnight.
That is the Great Bear, two spans above the rooftop.
The sky is not blue. It was blue during the day.
I should remember to go to Hasan's Orchard tomorrow to buy greengages and dried apricots.
I should remember to go to the abattoir tomorrow to make sketches of goats,
Of brooms, and of their reflection in water.
I should remember to rescue the butterflies falling in water.
I should remember not to commit a thing to offend against the laws of earth.
I should remember to wash my towel with soap bark at the stream tomorrow.
I should remember I am solitary.
The moon is over Solitude

From Green To Green

In this darkness
I am thinking of a bright lamb
To come and graze the grass of my weariness.
In this darkness
I perceive the wet extension of my arms
In the rain
Which wetted the Primal Prayers of Man.
In this darkness
I open the gate to ancient grass,
To the golden colours which we saw on the walls of myths.
In this darkness
I saw roots
And for the new-blown bush of death I defined water