b.12 FARVARDIN 1332/1 APRIL 1953
OEUVRE:
Iam looking for myself
.
I say it with no metaphor or trope
This bird is dead under her wing
And who,except you
Was able to pull the blue of sky
Off her open eyes.
If you don't eavesdrop
The vague echo of the rain
Still tingling in her feathers.
When you closed your eyes
When you close your eyes
Her wings continues on some lines
in your mind
By shadow and light of spring leaves
To disturb you
O void of the beginning to the end!
This bird has hidden her sound
Under her wing
And how she sang the day
By the spring
In the colorful moment of bubble
To remain a poet
And say
"There only remains the sound"
The passer-by was right that
His hut is not hot
More silent than my bird's pulse
More astonished than the mouth
Without a word
At the time of narrating the vagrancy
But still knows
Silence is an interpretation of the sound
To disturb the eternal sleep
At a night
If sleeping on the veranda of spring.
-Tr;F.Soleimani
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