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Lonely like Snow, Lonely like Forough

It's snowing again, like small white rice falling down from the sky. I had posted the pictures of Tehran on a snowy day before, so I don't intend to put such pictures again. Instead, as I was looking out of the window to look at the snow flakes, suddenly a poem by Forough Farrokhzad came to my mind. I thought of translating it for you, though I must say my English translation might have spoiled some of the beauty in its original Persian version. It's a very sad poem, I should warn you; I used to read it in my teens and feel very depressed. Let's read this poem together:

The sorrow of loneliness

It's snowing behind the window,
It's snowing behind the window,
A hand is planting in my chest,
The seed of sorrow.

Your hair turned white, O snow
When you saw me like this at last.
It snowed in my heart but,
It didn't snow on my grave, alas.

It's shaking like a weak sapling,
My soul from the cold of loneliness.
It sneaks in the darkness of my heart,
The fear of the world of loneliness.

You wouldn't make me warm anymore,
You love, the frozen sun,
My chest is the desert of hopelessness,
I'm tired, I'm tired even of love.

The bud of your desire also withered,
O poem, you mischivious devil.
From this painful sleep finally,
My being woke up, woke up.

After him to whatever I turned,
I saw it was the spell of a mirage.
What I was looking for, O me,
it was a shadow from a dream.

O God, please open to me,
The doors of the Hell for a moment.
How long should I hide in my heart,
The longing for the Hell's warmth?

I saw many times the Sun,
Died in sunset time after time.
My sunsetless sun, oh,
It died also in the south.

After him what else I'm seeking?
After him what else I'm peeking?
A cold teardrop to shed.
A warm grave to rest.

It's snowing behind the window,
It's snowing behind the window,
A hand is planting in my chest,
The seed of sorrow.

Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967)


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