Nader Naderpour

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   Nader Naderpour ( a poetical letter to Nosrat Rahmani)
  Translated by Mahvash Shahegh

  We Earned Our Living the Hard Way!

  That day the museum hall was full of people, old and young
  The still-life and portraits in
  the similar frames were hung on the walls.

  A viewer in front of a portrait would find a deserving mirror to see himself,
  and lifting his gaze from others.

  But my look wandered in the crowd from one stranger to the next
  Until you appeared amongst the multitude of faces
  It was only you who was alive and smiling
  It was only you who had a warm and sincere hand.

  I knew your pleasant name. Your name meant
  triumph of the just over unjust.
  But you pretended to be a wrongdoer.
  You cried out that you obey the Devil,
  in the alley of the prostitutes, but,
  I recognized your generous spirit. You shook my hand and said:
  "happy to see you, O' friend."

  What you said repeated itself in the silence inside me
  and went right back to you.

  I took your hand and together we left the still-life museum.

  In the huge museum of the street, we saw portraits of old and young
  But among those images, it was only you who was alive and in love,
  it was only you who had a sincere smile.

  From the verge of fire and ashes, we had the night to greet the dawn,
  the sun turned into a loaf of bread on our plates,
  the tone of our talk soaked in honey.

  Now, a thousand years have passed on the tale of our friendship
  and times have changed.

  O' my friend of youth: Have you heard also,
  the voice of departure in your heart?

  The cloud of sin has covered our hairs with snow of regret
  the old age like a pygmy child is sitting on our knees, crying.

  Today our town is not the same
  and our destiny is not what we expected.

  We never admitted the slap of the hidden truth on our faces
  We deceived our palate by just talking of sweets.

  In a ruin that did have no treasure but sun and poverty,
  we searched for treasure of words.

  Our time sent a word on the rise of lyrical in the absence of epic
  we raised the flag of imagination high over the rooftop.

Our predecessors were forgotten by God,
we devoted our soul and body to the service of the Satan.

  In Adam-and-Eve Paradise,
  we lashed chest-splinted, naked moon in the spring of maturity
  before rain started to fall down.

  We pinned down the young, jovial butterflies to a notebook
  whiter than the wedding bed,
  we had the scent of love in between our cloths and memories.

  We turned from lyrical poems to elegy
  yet, the swish of bullets were louder than poem's moan.

  In the midst of the battle, we realized that words are worthless
  and that this weapon is useless,
  that the throat- piercing bullet is a decisive reasoning that never needs to speak.

  O' my friend, we the smart children of this century were really
  the offspring of an ancient and fool generation,
  the generation who insanely grabbed the forelock of the sun
  in a melancholic dawn.
  The generation who saw the big giant in a worn-out windmill
  and pounded on his chest the spear.
  The curse of the wind broke its spear,
  and the paws of the giant bloodied his body.
  The generation who reached the fountain of youth, but, for the sake of
  its fellow travelers left it behind,
  and only the tale of thirstiness passed on to us .

  The generation who pounded, languishingly,
  the horse's legs with his club,
  in order to confront the smart enemy.

  The enemy arrived and stole the cranium from him,
  forced him to taste the wine -like blood.

  The generation who had heard of father,
  but had not known any sign of him.

  On the day of the battle, his enemy was non but the father,
  On the death bed, no one lamented but the father.

  To pay our shares, we added another tale to all the others,
  we, the slaves of poverty and captives of sun,
  reached the sky by the glory of poetry.

  We, the survivors of the ancient well-known,
  we were the descendants of idiots, poets, and ancient lovers.
  now the light of love is dead in this house.

  We earned our living the hard way
  since we did not know how to play the game of the day.

  Poetry shifted from sense to slogan
  Grasping it was beyond our comprehension.

  We, the unaware sleepers of the night before,
  waiting to see tomorrow without noticing today.

  All doors of remedy slammed in our face,
  we are the evidence of denial.

  O' my friend of lucky days,
  Let's look into the mirror again.
  we may recognize the picture of
  our youth inside its old frame.

  Let's be one with ourselves.
  We may not in our own solitudebe
  be frightened among the unknown rivals .

  O' my dear old companion
  now that this land's museum of history
  is filled with the pictures of old and young,
  could you find me again
  among the clutters of all these pictures?
  Or could I see you one more time
  amongst all these deceits?

By Nader Naderpour