Qasideh

 January 21, 2005

A poem by Saif-e Farqani (see Persian text), written in the 13th century A.D., during the Mongolian invasion that swept through much of present day Iran. Translated from the Persian by Ali Zarrin.

Not only will death pass through your world,
But your splendor too shall pass.

The owl of misfortune bringing ruin
Will perch on your palace too.

The autumn wind of adversity
Will wither your gardens and orchards.

The gasp of death choking both rich and poor
Will rattle in your throat too.

Oh you who wield blades like javelins to oppress!
The sharpness of your spears too shall dull.

Neither the great men of yore, nor their justice lasted.
Thus so, the injustice of your cruel acts will pass.

Our lions roared but are now extinct.
The barking of your dogs will surely cease.

Dust settles after horse and rider gallop by.
The dust of your jackasses too shall pass.

The wind of time that snuffs out all candles
Will likewise extinguish your lanterns.

So many caravans have passed through this caravanserai--
Inevitably, your caravan too shall pass.

You boast of your good fortune and bright star
The influence of your constellation too shall pass.

Your turn came to you by way of noble men.
The time of your dishonorable rule will pass.

Their time lasted but a couple of days.
A few more days and your time too shall pass.

With patience we shield ourselves from your arrows of tyranny
Until the tautness of your bow shall fail.

Oh you, who leaves the sheep in the care of a wolf--
Your wolfish shepherd too shall pass.

The knight of annihilation who check mates the King
Will also capture the pawns

Copyright 2005 Ali Zarrin

* Translated from the selected poems of Saif-e Farqani [Gozideh-ye Asha’re Saif-e Farqani], edited by Abu al-qasem Radfar, Amir Kabir Publications, Tehran, 1365. Pp. 25-26.

First Published in Iranian.com

MANUCHEHR AATASHI

Self-Awareness

To the Memory of my son, a broken branch

From what numbered alleys
did they come
losing their way toward home
in the hour when we-
trotting the same path-
remember the names of the fallen stars.

In the alley of the wind
you shall reach the storm,
in the alley of sighing
you shall scream and mourn.

In the clear throat of the seashells,
like the sun shining through the garden of water,
blossom the delicate buds of pearls.

When it came that you should not be
I cursed the wind in the alley
and the kite in the wind.

Whom shall I call
each day opening the window
that in past winters
framed your playful commotion?
Whom shall I call
without him coming?

Oh, the hunter of colors,
how many branches are there between us?
How many flowers?

Translated by Ali Zarrin

First published in the Literary Review

First Published 1996 with Desert
Also Iranian.com 1998








Copyright© 2006 by Ali Zarrin