Sunday Becomes Lost Here

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Sunday Becomes Lost Here

I Had No Home
The Boat That Brought Me
Sunday Becomes Lost Here
The Forth

Translated by Omid Ghahreman

Earth became the game-board
With crossroads of lines
A triangle that has leaning peaks to fall
On this dead horse
Whichever path you took I was lost
I had no home
A suitcase with high porticoes
Four gowns and a tree
A root to wind in polar day
A sky with tight zippers

Folding cities
Cloudy charm
A reminiscence of the girlish black eyebrow
In heavy rain

Then you kneeled down to see
Moon a hole in the sky
So wherever it’s possible to be lost
She would change the poems route
And turn the dream back to front

It was only your eye
That wrote the death lingering
Or the beast would have eaten my hand
And April moles
Wouldn’t take the wound seriously
Eight years of age
Have grown thin
Like a plum wicker
And loneliness has a small beak

Whichever way you came form
I had returned
Sometimes love was dragging me
Sometimes I was dragging love with my claws into her

And this room departs
With a lunatic behind the windowpanes
To broaden the laughter

Summer with rotten white cover
I’ve sold the Nietzsche
The antique porringer and the sugar bowl
And the violet dress in the wardrobe
Had been worn-out.

I had no home
And up through the seam of this running
The needle was jumping

You were not the cloud’s tail
And wind will not follow the lozenges
I won’t be found lower than God’s hollow
More radiant than the dove
That I gave birth to
And flew away from me
Black words lift
The woman’s wild mouth

A mountain of fallen borders
A white tooth in the voice of grass
Did the wind’s course
Reach your home
Amidst these lines?

AuthorAzita Ghahreman
2018-08-21T17:22:49+00:00 July 1st, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 84|0 Comments