Death of a color
A color, beside
The gates of night
Is laid to rest, has died.
A dark bird, from far and wide
Is triumphal, back to singing from the roof of night.
Cheerful of the conquest
Is back the sorrowful bird.
At a loss is the color
Broken are the tunes.
Only the brave bird
Stands high above to contrive
An ornament for the ears of silence
With the round echoes of its voice.
The dark bird
Has arrived from far, so far
Sitting on the crown of the night
Concrete like stone, still, alone;
The bird moves only the star
Towards the mixed shapes of his inside
As if a strange dream is to painfully remind:
“The flowers of color are to come out
Of the dusts and ash of night
In all fragrant routes
Moves no more.
Now and then, evermore,
After a mirage of isle or shore
The sorrowful bird
Sketches on the earth
A sign with his cold beak.
A chain is untied,
A dream is broken wide.
The myth of the flowers of color
Is long, so long lost in this opaque land.
Cross over the border, but silent
Is the death, the death of a color.
Oasis in a moment
If you are coming to me,
I am beyond oblivion.
Beyond oblivion is a place
Where dandelions run into the veins of air,
Bringing news of a faraway blooming bush.
The sands bear the footprints of delicate horsemen
Mounting the hilltop full of poppies.
Beyond oblivion, the umbrella of desire is open.
As soon as thirst blows onto the root of a leaf
Rain sings songs of freshness.
One is lonely here.
Where an elm’s shadow streams into eternity?
If you are coming to me
Approach gently, softly, lest you crack
The fragile china of my solitude.
By Sohrab Sepehri
Source: Iran Daily
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