Let's not speak ill of the moon when we are feverish.

(I have sometimes observed that at the height of fever ,

The moon comes down

and that one can touch the ceiling of heaven.

I have noticed that at such times the goldfinch

sings more  beautifully.

Sometimes a wound  in the sole of my foot

has taught me to appreciate the undulations of the earth.

Sometimes in my sickbed I have seen that flowers

grow  manifold in size,

and so does the radius of the sour orange

and the rays of the lantern.)

Let's have no fear of death

(Death is  not the end of the pigeon.

Death is not the inversion of a cricket.

Death flows in the mind of the acacia.

Death is a dweller in the fine climate of thinking .

Death heralds the morning

in  the very midst of the night of the village.

Death rides a bunch of grapes to  our mouth.

Death is responsible for the beauty of the butterfly.

Death sometimes drinks vodka.

Sometimes death sits in the shade and just looks at us.

And we all know

That the  lungs of pleasure are filled with death's oxygen.)

Let's not close our door to the living words of destiny

That we hear from behind the wattles of sound.

from Water's Footsteps

 

© Sohrab Sepehri (1928-1980)

 

Translated by :Karim Emami

and kindly forwarded by Farideh Hassanzadeh