HAFEZ MOUSAVI [10.028] Poeta de Irán

HAFEZ MOUSAVI     

(Irán, 1954)

Libros de poesía: 

Tocando los vidrios de las nebulosas del mundo -Líneas ocultas - Poemas de la República 

Historia

Y toda la historia es tan simple como yo digo:

hay una historia en nosotros y

para contarla, hemos venido aquí

Después

desciende la lluvia sobre nosotros

Para hacer más triste nuestras puestas de sol

y el viento sobre los trigales

y la mañana, roca por roca,

y sobre los labios de los ríos

sílabas de los mundos donde nosotros

hemos vivido anteriormente

y peor aún

ellos han dejado sola a la luna

en un cielo tan vasto

para hacemos llorar

Sin embargo

esto es todo

el- contexto de un cuento que nosotros debemos,

pero no podemos recordar

Selección de Poesía Contemporánea iraní

Traducción de Fariba Gurguin

In Subsequent Sentences 

In subsequent sentences of this poem,

a child

emerges on concrete stairs,

he remembers the running of the rabbits,

the short flights of partridge;

he remembers the wind,

and the color of olive groves:

green, leaden, silvery,

green, leaden, silvery,

"stop the car beside this jungle,

after rain the air

is delicious to eat!"

(the child has not appeared,

how untimely

has this colorful rope

fallen from the sky!).

His hands are still wet,

he remembers 

the walnut trees

in a rainy day,

with several non-plucked nuts

on distant branches...

In former lines of this poem

a child

is sitting on the concrete stairs

who doesn't understand the anxiety of his eyes.

They bring the horse,

they mount a man on the horse

- the child sees these things -

in an early morning

- this is seen by the man -

He is sitting on concrete stairs,

the yellow morning ends.

They return the horse without the man

and the anxiety of the eyes 

are conceivable.

The non-plucked nuts fall from the tree.

in the subsequent sentences of this poem

a child walks to the street

(it is clear that the sentence "it finishes early in the morning" wasn't correct)

and a horse without rider

neighs in the street and

casts away dust

from his mane

into the wind

and trots away.

The child

escapes the horse without rider,

and follows his unfinished plays

in pubs and streets.

These Lines

I'm writing these lines for you,

reveal not even one word in it

to anybody

after composing this poem

I will throw the key

into the ocean. 

We have little chance

and this narrow paths

will lead us nowhere.

I know an unknown path

but I have little chance to write

and eyes which grudge to see us

are watching us.

We have little chance;

let's meet

beside the same ocean.

Upon the Wing of A Butterfly...

You will sleep upon the wing of a butterfly

and will move away

so far 

that you can't hear

the beating of your heart.

The butterfly

will sit

on something soft as a flower

or on a piece of imagination

and then

you will easily 

go into 

sleep...

you go easily

into sleep...

Translated to English by M. Alexandrian