Parvin Etesami’s Autobiography

He left and I thought that my being became full of uncomposed poems, I went towards the orchard, my shrunken shadow followed me. When I was talking to Bahar, I had totally forgotten my shadow. I said: “Forgive me dear shadow. You know how much I like Bahar. Both, the spring season and Mr. Bahar [Spring].”

I sat down and read some of the poems of the great poets I had memorized for my shadow; some verses from Sa’di, Nezami, Hafiz, and Moulavi. I was fond of the verses of these poets. My father used to read their verses for me and I would quickly memorize them. Sometimes I felt that I had already memorized those verses long time back. I felt that those verses would narrate some latent aspects of my inner being. I felt that those poems didn't belong to Hafiz, Sa’di, and Moulavi; they were mine. When I read the poems loudly, I saw the butterflies waving their wings. Whatever I saw, I would inspect carefully. Sometimes I would compose poems about them. I thought that the butterflies talk to the flowers. The ants with trees and stones with stones, trees with trees and greeneries with flowers and thorns. In sum, whatever around me had a tongue and would talk. Sometimes I would remain silent for some moments and listen to the conversation of flower with thorn and heard what the breeze would whisper to the red rose! I saw that soil talked to the pomegranate tree. Sometimes I even felt the breathing of the tree under the soil. I heard the beating of its heart. When I was at home, I would play with the things around me and talk to them. I wished to compose poems about the conversation of those things. I felt that everything was live; had a tongue, talked and understood my language. Sky used to listen to my words, when I called it, it would become bluer and would smile. I liked to understand the secrets of everything.

That day the small patches of cloud tried their best to hide the sun, but couldn’t do anything. That day was the first day I saw there was no rain on Sizdahbedar. Although it would have not been bad if it had rained. Long time back when it was drizzling on Sizdahbedar, me and other children would sing a traditional song and enjoy singing it.

It’s raining; it’s raining, the earth is becoming wetter

Dear Golnesa, things will get better

Dear Golnesa, things will get better – things will get better

Translated by: Sadroddin Musawi