( 1 )

Whereas my heart was drowned in blood by the mere thought of it 

I was sad about the broken stars;

Sometimes I mourned for the buds which did not blossom;

Sometimes I was sorrowful for the burned tulip fields; 

Sometimes I sowed tears in the sterile earths,

Sometimes I was sad for unborn spring;

Sometimes I felt sorry for those rosy-cheeked ones 

Whose sweet fragrance someone would rob;

How could the funeral of colour and scent have stopped!

Sometimes I was sorrowful for my own consolers;

Whereas I was fearful of the lancets of wind and rain

That they would wound the newly-grown flowers;

Here I am, wool in my ears, frightened, a stone;

With my feet buried in the earth, mixed with blood,

Looking at those newly-grown plants,

Those unborn springs, buds

That scented the bride of the garden

Whose youth had been adorned by the earth,

Which is now taking her in its embrace;

The love-afflicted is now giving her a shroud.

( 2 )

Man does not even have the time for a single glance.

The seeds sewn by politics have sprouted;

The harvest sown by the elders is ow ripe;

A signal was given and the workers became liars;

There is no thought for wages, nor anxiety for recompense;

Every plant is in the range of the sickle,

The earth so fertile, the field so verdant,

If this plant had not been nurtured even here,

If these seeds had not sprouted even here,

Which earth would then have suited them?

Night and day the harvests being reaped;

The earth is clustered with bunches of skeletons;

Let there be festive music; let there be merry-making!

( 3 )

O inhabitants of the base earth, arise!

What is this drunkenness in which you are still sunk;

Listen! The minarets of sky-kissing fame

Fill every hamlet and city

From which the spring of light sprouts

And washes the dirt of the hearts;

Your leaders and mine and the gods,

Are calling us with tearful eyes;

May their shadow remain over our heads;

We have our sorrow, but they have the sorrow’ of the times. 

Through them, we, the brothers of dogs,

Learned to turn peopled settlements 

Into ruins for a piece of bone.

Thanks to them, we have always been trouble-makers,

And will always remain so.

.

O inhabitants of this base earth, Arise!

Those minarets of fame shine again with light; 

The chaste voice of our gods

Echoes in the space.

Not only we, but even Trees and stones listen

With heads bowed; the gods smile from the minarets,

Rise, look at your claws and teeth;

If they don’t shine now, of what use are they?

The leather coats of culture the beasts had been wearing 

They now cast them off;

The command of the jungle rules over culture;

Love has now closed its eyes;

Humanity has just gone to sleep.

.

( 4 )

This plaster of mud and straw, prepared

By the mixing of blood and earth,

For which building will it be the foundation?

This land where fire has been sewn,

How will it be settled, if it is ever to be?

.

This bloody story which has been written down —

I’m familiar with it, but who will remember it tomorrow?

.

( 5 )

The Sun of Doomsday has arrived;

Sinners are standing astonished and baffled

With their books of deeds in their left hand;

Everyone is blind; who’s there to give support 

To those who are about to fall? 

Terrible confusion; eyes set in the foreheads;

Friends and strangers complain about the darkness of light; 

But to whom should one tell one’s heart’s grief?

Heads boil, pots are cooking,

.

( 6 )

.

O beloved creatures of the gods, listen!

In whose love have you shed blood

And hacked bodies as one would cut

Dry trees; 

Those temple conches and bells,

Those sad and suffering stories

Come running in pursuit of you.

The calls to prayers tremble into space.

The icon-makers and the icons weep for you;

These foul pages of history

Which your pens have coloreds, why

Do you leave them behind for us?

Take this heavy load with you!

.

These foul pages of history which

Your pens have colored will constantly agitate

Like blood in the veins of future generations.

These foul-tasting fruits

Which you have sown such great diligence—

Will your sons, their children,

And the children of their children keep eating them 

With shrouds tied around their heads

In the shadow of grave?

.

( 7 )

.

I smell the blood-soaked shirt.

O mother, take me in your embrace; darkness 

Approaches upon me;

My brothers on whom in had put my trust 

Are singing lullabies, are lovingly giving lullabies to me 

Concealing daggers in their sleeves.

.

( 8 )

.

O playful sunbeams, entwining yourselves in the flowers,

O innocent souls of new, supple plants,

Walk by here more quietly;

The weary poet whom Man

Often wanted make despondent, longing,

Who has remained restless for you for ages,

Is sleeping in the lap of this earth 

In your path of this day!

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 153 – 60