I’m a native of Kashan.
Painting is my craft:
Now and then I build a cage with paint, sell it to you
So that with the song of poppies that is imprisoned in it
The heart of your loneliness may cheer up.
What a dream, what a dream…I know
My canvas is lifeless.
I know well, my painted fish tank contains no fishes.
let us curse not the Moonlight if we have fever
(Sometimes I have seen in fever, the moon descends,
and hands reach the ceiling of heaven.
I have noticed, the goldfinch sings better.
Sometimes a wound that I have had under my feet
have taught me the ups and downs of the ground.
Sometimes in my sickbed the size of a flower has multiplied,
and increased it has, the diameter of an orange, the radius of a lantern.)
And let us not fear death
(Death is not the end of the pigeon.
Death is not a cricket’s inversion.
Death flows in the soul of acacias.
Death has a seat in the pleasant climate of thinking.
Death in the spirit of the village’s night speaks of morning.
Death with a bunch of grapes comes into the mouth.
Death sings in the red larynx of the throat.
Death is responsible for the beauty of a butterfly’s wings.
Death sometimes picks basil.
Death sometimes drinks vodka.
Sometimes it is in the shade watching us.
and we all know
The lungs of pleasure, are full of the oxygen of death.)
from The Footsteps of Water, by Sohrab Sepehri