CHAPTER 1

From Book I

The Death of Colour

(Margeh Rang)

    In the Pitch Black of Night (Dar Ghireh Shab)

    For a long time now, in this loneliness
    The colour of silence sits upon my lips.
    A distant cry calls me,
    But my feet are in the pitch black of night.

    Not a single chink in this darkness:
    Walls, doors, held fast together.
    If a shadow slips and stumbles on the floor
    It's the image of an illusion, from fetters freed.

    Strange the times
    In this corner of stagnant air,
    Where everywhere people's breath is bated
    And all joy is dead.

    Night's bewitching hand
    Slams the door – in my face and that of sorrow.
    No matter how hard I try,
    It only mocks me.

    All that I designed in daytime,
    Night came and smeared with smoke.
    All that I imagined at night,
    Day came and erased outright.

    For a long time now, everyone, like me,
    Has the colour of silence upon their lips.
    There is no movement in this darkness:
    Hands, feet, in the pitch black of night.


    Smoke is Rising (Dood Meekheezad)

    Smoke is rising from my place of retreat.
    When will someone know of my corner of devastation?
    With my inner desolation I have much to say.
    When will my endless fable end?

    I left the lap of night
    To cling to the tresses of dawn.
    From the shore I flung myself into the water,
    Not knowing the depth of the sea.

    The design of defeat writ on the walls.
    Colour was no longer seen hereabouts.
    From deep within, day and night,
    Eyes weave visions of hope.

    As soon as I stepped in here
    From the caravan's bells I broke free.
    Though I burn in this heart-consuming fire,
    To this burning I am committed.

    Darkness draws away from the rooftops:
    Morning laughs on its way to my town.
    Smoke still rises from my retreat.
    With my inner desolation I have much to say.


    Dawn (Sepeedeh)

    In the distance,
    A swan, suddenly woken from its sleep,
    Washes away indigo dust from feathers white.

    The riverbank
    Overflows with whispering waves,
    On a bed of white.

    Light and shadow intermingle.
    Gliding through a heap of soot,
    A glow-worm, shines in a fire, all white.

    In step with the delicate dance of the reed bed,
    The marshland opens wet eyes of white.

    There is a streak of light upon the darkness:
    Upon ebony you'd think shines white gold – white.

    The wall of shadows is devastated.
    Upon the distant sky, a vision's hand
    Has built a palatial mansion, of marble white.


    The Riddle Bird (Morgheh Moamma)

    For ever so long, on a branch of this willow
    Sits a bird, the colour of a riddle.
    Attuned to him no sound, no colour.
    Totally alone, like me, in this land.

    Though inwardly ever full of tumult,
    In appearance, silent he remains.
    Should this pregnant silence ever break,
    It will shake the order of the day.

    No way out, though the bird is in full song,
    Its silent form a telling voice.
    The seconds pass before his wakeful eyes,
    His form, though, the shadow-light of dreams.

    Feathers and wings grown from above and below.
    Life, a distant dream: waves of a mirage.
    His shadow congealed along the length of the wall,
    Wall and shadow draped in a dream.

    Eyes fixed on imaginary designs.
    In them no empty desires.
    Since a bond ties me to his silence,
    His inner eye seeks no words with others.

    The bird's tale comes straight from the heart:
    What fails to arrive is idle fancy.
    His are ties with cities lost:
    The riddle bird is a stranger in this land.


    A Light at the Heart of Night (Roshaneh Shab)

    Fire is alight at the heart of night
    And beyond its smoke,
    A scene of distant desolation.
    If a grating sound be heard,
    It's dry bones rattling in a grave.

    My stove has been cold for ever so long,
    My lamp, deprived of light.

    Sleep carried the watchman away.
    Soundless, someone came through the door.
    In the darkness, he lit a fire,
    Unaware though
    That in the watching, a look was consumed.

    Though I know that eyes have paths to the spell of night,
    Yet from the bright openings in a happy dream
    I see the fire alight at the heart of night.


    Mirage (Sarab)

    The sun, and the desert so vast!
    No grass, no trees here seen,
    But for the crowing of ravens,
    A valley deserted of all sound.

    In the distance, behind a curtain of dust
    A black point flickers from afar:
    If the eye strains forward, it will see
    Someone, plodding a path.

    Body broken by fatigue.
    Head and face covered with dust.
    Throat parched with thirst.
    Bare, thorn-cut, bleeding feet.

    With each step forward, at horizon's feet
    A sea of water he finds.
    A few steps on and he thinks,
    `It is only a dream.'


    Towards Sunset (Roo beh Ghorub)

    Sunset's crimson falls,
    Highlighting the stones in places.
    The mountain is silent,
    The river roars.
    In the midst of the plain remains
    A mound of darkest blue.

    Shadow blends with shadow.
    Stones bond with stones.
    A worn-out day is on its way.
    Beguiling to its eyes, the notion of
    Sadness in search of a smile.

    On high turrets, the owl hoots
    The vultures, ominous,
    One by one land from the air,
    Seeking carrion left on the plain,
    Sharp beaks pluck eyes out of sockets
    Below the forehead, remain
    Two dark, hollow holes.

    Darkness approaches.
    Silent falls the plain.
    The colourful story of the day
    Moves towards completion.

    Branches dejected,
    Stones depressed,
    River moaning, owl hooting,
    Sadness entwined with sunset colours.
    From my lips a cold story flows:
    My heart sad in sunset's tightness.


    Sorrowful Sadness (Ghami Ghamnak)

    A cold night and I, dejected.
    Tired feet, and a long road ahead.
    Darkness, and a lamp gone dead.

    Alone, I walk down the road:
    Far removed from one and all.
    A shadow passed over the wall,
    Adding sorrow to my sadness.

    The thought of darkness and this desolation
    Came silently and unannounced,
    In secret, to weave stories with my heart.

    With no colour to tell me:
    `Patience, dawn is at hand.'
    Each moment this wail rises from my heart:
    `Heavens, how dark is the night!'

    Where a smile to cheer my heart?
    A drop to throw into the sea?
    A rock to which I could cling?

    This is why the night is dank.
    Others too are sad at heart,
    My sadness, though, is sorrowful sadness.


    Ruin (Kharab)

    My eyes grew old peering into the distance,
    Till finally they believed me that life
    Was an imaginary colour upon the face of a dream.

    I entrusted my heart to separation's pain, but to what avail?
    My night of splendour ended
    With the morning of recrimination.

    My eyes never drank from this defeat-laden life.
    This house was built on foundations of water.

    With a parched throat only, I plied the path.
    My feet stung by desert thorns.
    If anyone, helpfully, held my hand,
    It was but a mirage, another illusion.

    The good things of life were fleeting moments:
    With my heart full of pain, Night had a secret slowness,
    With Day's work though, a surge of liveliness.

    Talk of mortality cast a pall upon my life.
    In my heart, the call of happiness was muted, since from the start
    The image of the owl was this ruin's only adornment.


    One Who Revives (Jan Gerefteh)

    Tonight, a tune burst open the grave of my mind,
    Poured life into the veins of one who was dead,
    Rose from among the shadows and the light,
    Shouting at me: `Thinking me dead
    You entrusted me to the dust of bygone days?
    Futile your thoughts,
    My very form drives death away.
    My destiny is tainted with the venom of bitter moments.
    With every opportunity I will assail you,
    And contaminate your joys with pain.
    To your imaginings I shall give forms and figurations
    That shall make your resolve pale to naught,
    That shall mix pain and pleasure
    That pour in each of your heartbeats,
    Recalling dust-covered images of old.'

    The dead thing was tight-lipped and silent,
    Eyes flickering at an inauspicious plan.
    Pain oozed out of my body,
    A tune burst upon my mind.


    The Silent Valley (Darehyeh Khamoush)

    Silence has broken its bonds.
    In the corner of a valley, a willow in full splendour stands.
    In the twilight-coloured sky
    A white cloud passes by.

    Silently, through the vein of every leaf, runs the breeze.
    Behind every rock sits a fear, in ambush.
    From behind a stone, a lizard lifts its head.
    Fearful of the silent valley,
    Motionless it sits,
    Surveying the road with cold, dry, bitter and sorrowful eyes.

    Like a snake, a trail winds up the mountainside.
    On the trail, a traveller.
    Thoughts of the valley, of loneliness
    Run fear through his veins.
    From every crevice in the mountain
    A snake slithers out.
    Behind every stone
    Angry thorns, daggers drawn.

    Evening has flown from the mountain.
    Lost to the eye are both trail and traveller.
    Full of fanciful fears, a huge sadness
    Sits in the rough and rocky landscape.
    In the dark valley,
    Silence has broken its bonds.


    The Death of Colour (Margeh Rang)

    A colour, on the edge of night,
    Wordless, has died.
    From faraway places, a bird, all black, has come
    From rooftops to sing of the night of defeat.
    Joyful and proud, from a recent victory it has come,
    This sorrow-worshipping bird.

    In that defeat of colour
    The chords of every song unravelled.
    Alone, the song of that courageous bird
    With echoes,
    Adorns the ears of this simple silence.

    The bird, all black, has come from faraway places
    To sit motionless, like a stone,
    Upon the roof of the night of defeat.
    Its eyes move from side to side
    Following the forms of its confused imaginings.
    A strange dream troubles it:

    The flowers of colour spring from the soil of Night.
    In perfume-scented streets
    The breeze moves no more.

    Every moment, in deceptive hope this sorrow-worshipping bird
    Draws new plans, with the help of its beak.

    A bond has broken,
    A sleep disturbed.
    The prevailing outlook
    Has erased from memory
    The fable that the flowers of colour will reappear.
    Wordless, one must pass this bend in the road.
    On the edge of this endless night, a colour has died.


    Dang ... (Dang ...)

    Dang ... dang ...
    In the night of a lifetime
    The confused clock of Time repeatedly tolls.
    The poisonous thought, that this is just a passing moment
    Is imprinted within the veins of my being.
    My moment is either full of pleasure
    Or mixed with the rust of sorrow.
    Yet, since this moment must pass,
    If I cry
    My tears will serve no purpose,
    And if I laugh
    My laughter will be of no avail.

    Dang ... dang ...
    The moments pass.
    For that which goes comes no more.
    A story that can never again
    Have a beginning.
    As if a question that has no answer
    Has frozen upon the cold lips of Time.
    Hurriedly I leap up
    To cling to the wall of that moment in which everything
    Is tinted with delight.
    What remains of this effort:
    The smile of an instant now lost to my eyes,
    And the imprint of my fingers
    Upon that moment's form.

    Dang ...
    An opportunity lost.
    A story ended.
    One moment must follow another
    For continuity to come alive in the mind.
    Continuity that pours poison in my veins
    Depriving me of the idea of the here and now,
    And from far and distant places
    Binds me to thoughts of decay and decline.

    One scene passes,
    Another comes forward:
    One image after another,
    One colour merges into another.
    In the night of a lifetime
    The confused clock of Time repeatedly tolls:
    Dang ... dang ...
    Dang ...


    A Man and the Sea (Darya wa Mard)

    Alone, along the shore,
    Walks a man.
    At his feet
    The sea, surging, clamouring.
    The night, giddy with the heaving waves.
    The wind, terrifying,
    Turns toward the beach and into the eyes of the man,
    Darkening both the design and colour of danger,
    As if saying,
    `Hey, where are you going, man? Where?'
    The man goes his way.
    The vagrant wind
    Calls out again: `Where are you going man? Where?'
    The man goes his way,
    As does the wind ...

    Daunting breakers
    Keep arriving,
    Overflowing with arrogance, aggression.
    One such, full of dread,
    Sweeps across the shore and swallows
    A shadow, stripped of all patience by the night.

    The sea, surging, clamouring.
    The night, giddy with the heaving waves.
    The wind, terrifying,
    Turns towards the beach and ...


    A Happening (Sargozasht)

    The sea is in uproar.
    On the seashore, no one to be seen.
    On the dark waters, not even a spot
    That could, were it to approach, be a boat.

    On the seashore remains
    A boat that has suffered the blows of the night.
    Its frame, in some strange way,
    Drowned in bitter perceptions.
    No one arrives
    To return it to the sea.
    While every heave of water
    Speaks to it in secret,
    An agitated wave arrives to tell us
    The story of a stormy night at sea.

    That night, a fisherman had gone
    To bring in from the sea
    What seemed more like
    Fantasies in a dream.

    The morning after, when in the water
    One wave did not move to beat against another,
    Fishermen saw a boat at sea, that told
    The story of the bitter night before.
    They pulled the boat towards the sleepy shore,
    Right where, at this sad moment, it rests.
    And nearby,
    The sea is in uproar
    And from far away, a wave arrives that once more tells
    The not very long story
    Of a night, a stormy night at sea.