احمد شاملو , آخر بازی --akhare bazii, shamloo
Ahmad Shamlu wrote this poem before the 1979 Irainian revolution.
He passed away a few years ago, his words gives us strength.
(End of the Game)
Lovers
passed through, downcast,
ashamed of their ill-timed songs
And the alleys
left with no murmurs and footsteps.
Soldiers
passed by, shattered,
weary
on skeletal horses,
and faded rags of shameful pride
on their spears.
To what avail
you boast
to the world,
when
every dust particle in your doomed path curses you?
How can you enjoy
trees and gardens
for you spoke to Yassmin
with shears.
Where you step
plants
refrain from growing.
For you
never believed
in integrity
of soil and water
Alas! Our destiny
was the faithless ballad of your soldiers
returning
from the conquest of harlots' fortress.
Wait and see what the curse of hell
will make of you,
for the grieving mothers
mourners of the most beautiful children of the sun and wind
have not yet
raised their head from their prayers.
Closing Game
The Lovers,
passed by, heads hanging lowly,
ashamed of their untimely songs.
And since then,
the lanes remained void and silent.
The Soldiers,
passed by, broken and drown,
riding their ghostly horses, and-
with the fading stains of their hubris
all over their blades.
*&*
To Heavens and Earth,
You boast!
But where will you end?
All the bits of these dusty routes-
the ones that you have ever crossed-
will be, forever, cursing you!
To Meadow and Forest,
You boast!
But where will you end?
You spoke to the daffodils-
the ones that witnessed your march-
with the cold lames of a sickle!
You must know:
wherever you go-
the plants cease to grow.
For you could never believe, ever,
the nobility, the worth,
of Water and Earth,
of Fire and Air.
*&*
Alas!
Our destiny is sketched,
By the chant, by the march these lost souls-
who are your soldiers:
Mercenaries-
returning from the haunted bastion-
of wrong, of Whore of Babylon.
Behold!
Beware!
Beware what this hellish curse-
will make of you!
For grieving mothers,
mournful of the most beautiful children of Sun and Wind-
are still praying to Heavens with wide open arms-
stretched towards the skies!
By Ahmad Shamlou, London, 1979
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2009, Montréal
This poem was first published in the anthology Little Songs of Exile, Tehran, 1980.
He passed away a few years ago, his words gives us strength.
(End of the Game)
Lovers
passed through, downcast,
ashamed of their ill-timed songs
And the alleys
left with no murmurs and footsteps.
Soldiers
passed by, shattered,
weary
on skeletal horses,
and faded rags of shameful pride
on their spears.
To what avail
you boast
to the world,
when
every dust particle in your doomed path curses you?
How can you enjoy
trees and gardens
for you spoke to Yassmin
with shears.
Where you step
plants
refrain from growing.
For you
never believed
in integrity
of soil and water
Alas! Our destiny
was the faithless ballad of your soldiers
returning
from the conquest of harlots' fortress.
Wait and see what the curse of hell
will make of you,
for the grieving mothers
have not yet
raised their head from their prayers.
Closing Game
The Lovers,
passed by, heads hanging lowly,
ashamed of their untimely songs.
And since then,
the lanes remained void and silent.
The Soldiers,
passed by, broken and drown,
riding their ghostly horses, and-
with the fading stains of their hubris
all over their blades.
*&*
To Heavens and Earth,
You boast!
But where will you end?
All the bits of these dusty routes-
the ones that you have ever crossed-
will be, forever, cursing you!
To Meadow and Forest,
You boast!
But where will you end?
You spoke to the daffodils-
the ones that witnessed your march-
with the cold lames of a sickle!
You must know:
wherever you go-
the plants cease to grow.
For you could never believe, ever,
the nobility, the worth,
of Water and Earth,
of Fire and Air.
*&*
Alas!
Our destiny is sketched,
By the chant, by the march these lost souls-
who are your soldiers:
Mercenaries-
returning from the haunted bastion-
of wrong, of Whore of Babylon.
Behold!
Beware!
Beware what this hellish curse-
will make of you!
For grieving mothers,
mournful of the most beautiful children of Sun and Wind-
are still praying to Heavens with wide open arms-
stretched towards the skies!
By Ahmad Shamlou, London, 1979
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2009, Montréal
This poem was first published in the anthology Little Songs of Exile, Tehran, 1980.
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