Hidup dan Mati

Hidup dan mati adalah perbezaan,
yang satu melengkapi yang lain

Hidup dan mati adalah paradoks,
yang satu melawan yang lain

Juga, hidup dan mati adalah tautologi,
yang satu mengulang yang lain

Dengan hidup lalu berganding mati,
semuanya (ya, semuanya!) dalam genggaman

Khabarkan tentang hidupnya,
'kan ku ceritakan tentang kematiannya

Segalanya (ya, segalanya!) 'kan kukesahkan,
bahawa ini soal lingkaran.

Hidup

Beginilah hidup
yang takkan pernah tenteram
yang mengajar untuk biasa gelisah
agar perginya terlepas beban.

What a marriage really is

Now, here and now,
As you and I are we,
Being so mine you will be me,
And yours so I, I must be you--
Then look, how now and here, live and true,
The miracle (our own!) of He and She.

You more Me than me,
I more You than you,
So I more Me than me
And you more You than you.

Perpetual motion, We,
Around eternity.

Thus help us THEY; this grant us HE.

By Heinrich Blücher (29 January 1899 – 30 October 1970)

Shahzadeye Gheseye Man

Untuk Imam Reza

Santouri

Mehrjui dan Lembu

This interview has been transcribed from the DVD release of "The Cow." The actual questions asked by the interviewer were omitted on the DVD so Firouzan Films has added what was likely asked of the director before each response.

Interviewer: Can you explain the role of the traditional Iranian village in this movie?

Dariush Mehrjui: It was the first time that a film was made in a village and we were trying to really catch the essence of village life at that particular historical moment. It was a story to represent the plight of an individual, of a human being, versus the society which surrounds him and therefore it had this social dimension to it. There was also a metaphysical or, one should say, a philosophical aspect to this love relationship between this man and his cow. And the way he adores her and she is pregnant and a source of nourishment.

Interviewer: This film was released during the reign of Mohammad Reza Shah, did you deal with any issues of censorship?

Dariush Mehrjui: It came out or it was produced at a time when the Shah's propaganda was at its peak -- talking about the civilization and how we are now passing the threshold of the old civilization and entering into new civilization. Always talking about modernity and modernization and all these things. And then they said this film which has become now representative of Iran because it made big success in festivals everywhere so they said oh well -- they were kind of ashamed that Iran would be represented by its village.

They confiscated the film for about a year or a year and a half. Even during the shooting of the film or the film script we had problems.

Interviewer: What is the story of "The Cow"?

Dariush Mehrjui: Its the story of a poor village, there is this Mashd Hassan who has a cow and then one day suddenly the cow dies, you don't know why, and the villagers get together. They hide the issue from Mashd Hassan when he comes back because he's out of the village. And when he comes back they don't tell him but he gradually finds out about this. They first started lying and saying that the cow has run away or whatnot, but then finally he finds out that the cow is dead but he can not come to believe it or to accept it and gradually he goes into a seclusion, to isolation, and he undergoes a kind of metamorphoses. He identifies himself with his cow and becomes like his cow and says that "I'm the cow."

Interviewer: What were some of your influences for making this film?

Dariush Mehrjui: I was very much influenced by the Neorealism in Italy and also the classical films of Eisenstein or even Griffith and some of these films which they categorize as "art films." I felt the absence of such kind of films in Iran and this was one of my great dreams to be able to make a film about this situation.

The first thing that I learned from Neorealism was to just look for the reality of your own. Not the others'. Try to be just yourself and try to seek out the reality inherent in your culture, in your society. The closer you go, the deeper you go into that, the more universal it will be. (http://www.firouzanfilms.com/HallOfFame/Inductees/DariushMehrjui.html)

Harap

Jarak

Tuhanku

Tiada Eid Buatku

Bunga Maryam

Sohrab Sepehri

Jika Satu Hari...

اگه روزی بری سفر
Age roozi beri safar
If one day you go to a trip

بری ز پیش من بی*خبر
Beri az pish-e man bi khabar
Leave me without notice

اسیر رؤیاها میشم
Asir-e rooyaahaa mishem
I will be held captive by dreams

دوباره تنها میشم
Dobaare tanhaa mishem
I will become again alone

به شب میگم پیشم بمونی
Be shab migam pisham bemooni
I will tell the night that you should stay with me
*(for purposes of rhyme and rhythm, he has used the present subjunctive bemuni
instead of imperative bemun leaving a little ambiguity)

به باد میگم تا صبح بخونی
Be baad migam taa sobh bekhooni
I will tell the wind that you should sing until the morning
(again note usage of bekhuni instead of bekhun)

بخون ز اون دیار یاری
Bekhoon az oon diyaar-e yaari
Sing of that clime of the friend/companion
diyār-e yāri ke (with stressed -i means 'clime of companionship which...)
diyār-e yāri ke (with unstressed -i means 'clime of the companion who...) بخون ز اون دیار یاری

که توش منو تنها نذاری
Ke toosh tanhaa nazaari
That would not leave me alone in it

اگر فراموشم کنی
Ager faraamoosham koni
If you forget me

ترک آغوشم کنی
Tark-e aaghoosham koni
(If) you leave my embrace

پرندهٔ دریا میشم
Parandeye deryaa misham
I will become the bird of the sea

تو چنگ موج رها میشم
Too chang-e mooj ra haa misham
I will be left in the clutches of the wave

به دل میگم ساکت بمونی
Be del migam saakat bemooni
I will tell Heart that you be quiet
(present subjunctive bemuni instead of
imperative bemun for purposes of rhyme and rhythm)

به باد میگم تا صبح بخونی
Be baad migam taa sobh bekhooni
I will tell the wind that you should sing until the morning
(again note usage of bekhuni instead of bekhun)

بخون ز اون دیار یاری
Bekhoon az oon diyaar-e yaari
Sing of that clime of the friend/companion

که توش منو تنها نذاری
Ke toosh mano tanhaa nazari
Who would not leave me alone in it که توش منو تنها نذاری

اگر یه روزی نوم تو
Ager ye roozi noom-e to
If one day your name

تو گوش من صدا کنه
To goosh-e man sedaa koneh
Should sound in my ear

دوباره باز غمت بیاد
Dobaare baaz ghamat biyad
yet again your sorrow (sorrow for you) should come

که منو مبتلا کنه
Ke mano mobtalaa koneh
That would make me afflicted

به دل میگم کاریش نباشه
Be del migam kaarish nabaashe
I will tell Heart that it should not have any business
(the -sh of kāri-sh refers to del, a colloquial usage)

بذاره درد تو دوا شه
Bezaareh dard-e to davashe
(That it should) let your pain/pain for you become medicine

بره تو تمام جونم
Bereh tooye tamoom-e joonam
(That it should) go in all my soul

که باز برات آواز بخونم
Ke baaz baraat aavaaz bekhoonam
That again, I should sing for you.

اگر بازم دلت می*خواد
Ager bozam delet mikhad
If again your heart should want

یار یکدیگر باشیم
Yaar-e yekdigar baashim
That we be the friend of one another

مثل ایوم قدیم بنشینیم و سحر پاشیم
Mesl-e ayoom-e ghadim beshinim o sahar paashim
Like the old days, we sit (together) and stand (and part) at dawn

باید دلت رنگی بگیره
Baayad delet rangi begire
Your heart should take on some color

دوباره آهنگی بگیره
Dobaare ahangi begire
It should take on a melody again

بگیره رنگ اون دیاری
Begire rang-e oon diyari
It should take on the color of that clime

که توش منو تنها نذاری
Ke toosh mano tanhaa nazaari
That would not leave me alone in it

اگر میخوای پیشم بمونی
Ager mikhay pisham bemooni
If you want to stay with me

بیا تا باقی جوونی
Bia taa baaghiye javooni
Come for the rest of youth

بیا تا پوست به استخونه
Bia taa posht be ostokhoone
Come, as long as there is skin on [our] bones

نذار دلم تنها بمونه
Nazar delam tanhaa bemoone
Don’t let my heart remain alone

بذار شبم رنگی بگیره
Bezar shabam rangi begire
Let my night take on some color

دوباره آهنگی بگیره
Dobaare ahangi begire
(Let it) again take on a melody

بگیره رنگ اون دیاری
Begire rang-e oon diyaari
(Let it) take on the color of that clime

که توش منو تنها نذاری
Ke toosh mano tanhaa nazaari
That would not leave me alone in it.

اگر روزی نوم تو
Ager roozi noom-e to
If one day your name

تو گوش من صدا کنه
Too goosh-e man sedaa koneh
Should sound in my ear

غمت دوباره باز منو مبتلا کنه
Ghamat dobare baaz mano mobtalaa koneh
(If) your sorrow/sorrow for you again should make me afflicted

به دل می*گم کاریش نباشه
Be del migam kaarish nabashe
I will tell Heart that it should not have any business

بذاره درد تو دوا شه
Bezaare dard-e to davashe
(It should) let your pain/pain for you become medicine

بره تو تمام جونم
Bereh tooye tamoom-e joonam
(That it should) go in all my soul

که باز برات آواز بخونم
Ke baaz baraat aavaaz bekhoonam
That again, I sing for you.

// http://sartre2.byu.edu/persian/songs/ageYeRuz.html

Beritahu Aku

به من بفهمون
کجای سرنوشتم
دارم میرم جهنم یا راهی بهشتم
از این دو راهی دل خوشی ندارم
یا می خورم به پائیز یا مرسه بهارم
مثل ابرا همش تبعید می شم
با هیچ کوهی سر سازش ندارم
یه موجم که با دریا قهر کرده
بدون تو من آرامش ندارم
گمت کردم ولی غافل از اینکه
خدا با این بزرگی گم نمی شه
مواظب بودی از دستت نیفتم
هوامو داری یا داشتی همیشه
دارم نابود می شم، دود می شم
بذار آتیش این دوری تمام شه
خودم دیدم همین نزدیکیا یی
نذار عمرم با جون کندن حروم شه

Tolong beritahu aku
Di manakah kelak nasibku
Di Neraka atau Surga
Aku sebenarnya tak suka dua pilihan ini
Aku bakal menjumpai musim gugur atau semi
Aku terasing bak awan
Yang tak pernah cocok dengan gunung
Aku bak riak gelombang yang benci akan laut
Tanpa-Mu aku tak pernah merasa tenang
Aku kehilangan-Mu, tapi aku lupa...
Allah Yang Maha Besar tidak pernah hilang
Engkau menjaga-Ku agar tak jauh dari-Mu
Engkau senantiasa memperhatikanku
Aku bakal binasa, menjadi asap
Biarkan api keterasingan ini berakhir
Aku melihat-Mu berada di dekatku
Jangan biarkan umurku lenyap begitu saja

//diterjemahkan oleh Saleh Lapadi

The Footsteps of Water

I am a native of Kashan

My days are not so bad.
I own a loaf of bread, a bit of intelligence, a tiny bit of taste.
I possess a mother better than the leaves of trees.
Friends, better than the water of a running brook.

And a God who is this near:
Within these gillyflowers, beneath that tall pine tree,
Hovering above the awareness of water, above the Law of Foliage.

I am Muslim.
My Qiblah is a red rose.
My praying spot is a spring, my prayer stone is light.
Plains are my praying mat.
I make ablution with the heartbeat of windows.
In my prayer flows the Moon, flow the colors of the spectrum.
Stones are visible from behind my prayer:
Crystallized are all the particles of my prayer.
I do my prayer when,
Its Athan wind, from a cypress tree’s minaret, has sung.
I do my prayer to grass's saying "God is the Greatest"
To the "Iqama" of waves.

My Kabaa is by the lip of the brook,
My Kabaa is under the acacias.
My Kabaa like the breeze, blows from garden to garden, from town to town.

My Black Stone is the brilliance of the garden.

I’m a native of Kashan.
My craft is painting:
Now and then I build a cage with paint, sell it to you
So that with the song of poppies that is imprisoned in it
The heart of your loneliness may cheer up.
What a dream, what a dream...I know
My canvas is lifeless.
I know well, my painting basin contains no fishes.

I’m a native of Kashan.
My descent perhaps goes back
To a plant in India, to an earthen vase from the soil of 'Sialk'.
My descent perhaps goes back to a prostitute in the city of Bukhara.

My father behind two migrations of swallows, behind two snowfalls,
My father behind twice sleeping in the veranda,
My father behind eras has died.
My father died when, the sky was blue,
My mother jumped from sleep unaware, my sister became beautiful.
My father died when, the policemen were all poets.
The grocer man asked me: How many melons do you want?
I asked him :How much is the price of a happy heart?

My father used to paint.
He used to make tars, played the tar too.
He also had a nice handwriting.

Our garden stood on the side of the shadow of wisdom.
Our garden was the interweaving place of feeling and plants,
Our garden was the meeting point of a glance, a cage and a mirror .
Our garden was perhaps, an arc of the green circle of happiness.
The unripe fruit of God on that day, I used to chew in sleep.
Water I used to drink without philosophy
Berries, I used to pick without knowledge.
As soon as a pomegranate used to crack, hands turned to fountains of desire.
As soon as a cello used to sing, the chest burnt from a longing to hear.
Sometimes loneliness used to stick its face to the windowpane.
Passion used to come, and put its arms around the neck of sense.
The mind, used to play.
Life was something, like a rainfall during Eid, like a plane tree full of starlings.
Life at that time, was a line up of light and dolls,
It was an armful of liberty.
Life at that time, was a music basin.

The child, slowly, walked away along the alley of dragonflies.
I packed my things, went out of the city of carefree fancies
With my heart filled with homesickness for dragonflies.

I went to the party thrown by the world:
I, to the field of grief,
I, to the garden of mysticism,
I, to the illuminated veranda of knowledge went.
I climbed up the stairs of religion.
To the end of the alleyway of doubt,
To the cool air of self-sufficiency,
To the wet night of love and affection.
I went to see someone who was at the other side of love.
I went, I went until women,
Until the lantern of pleasure,
Until the silence of desire,
Until the flapping sound of the wings of loneliness

I saw things on the face of Earth:
I saw a child, who was smelling the Moon.
I saw a door-less cage in which, brilliance was flapping its wings.
I saw a ladder on which, love ascended to the roof of heaven.
I saw a woman, who was pounding light in a mortar.
Lunch on their table was bread, was vegetables, was the distance of dew, was the hot bowl of affection.

I saw a beggar, who was walking door to door begging for the song of a lark
And a sweeper who was praying to the rind of a melon.

I saw a lamb, that was eating a kite.
I saw a donkey, which understood hay.
In the meadow of 'advice' I saw a cow, satiated.

I saw a poet who, when he talked, he addressed a lily as "Your Highness."

I saw a book, its words all of the make of crystal.
I saw a sheet of paper, of the make of spring,
I saw a museum faraway from grass,
A mosque faraway from water.
Above the bed of a hopeless scholar, I saw a vase, overflowing with questions

I saw a mule whose load was 'essays'
I saw a camel whose load was the empty basket of 'proverbs'.
I saw a mystic whose load was 'tanana ha ya hoo'.

I saw a train, that was carrying brilliance.
I saw a train, that was carrying knowledge and so torrential it went.
I saw a train, that was carrying politics (and so empty it went.)
I saw a train, that was carrying seeds of lotus and the song of canaries.
And an air plane, which on that height of thousands of feet,
the soil through its windows was visible:
the topknot of hoopoes,
The spots of a butterfly's wings,
The reflection of a frog in a pond
And the passage of a fly from the alleyway of loneliness.
The clear desire of a sparrow, when from a plane tree it comes toward the ground.
And the maturation of the Sun.
And the beautiful love making of a doll with the morning.

Stairs that ascended to the greenhouse of lust.
Stairs that descended to the cellar of alcohol.
Stairs that ran to the Law of Corruption of Red Roses
And toward the understanding of Mathematics of Life,
Stairs that ran to the roof of enlightenment,
stairs that ran to the platform of manifestation.

My mother down there
was washing the cups in the stream's memory.

The city was visible:
The geometrical growth of cement, steel, stones.
The pigeon-less roofs of hundreds of buses.
A florist was putting up his flowers for sale.
Between two jasmine trees, a poet was hanging a swing.
A boy was throwing stones at the wall of school.
A child was spitting plum stones upon dad's faded praying mat.
And a goat was drinking water from the Caspian Sea of a geographical map.

A laundry-line was visible, a restless brassiere.

The wheel of a cart longing for the horse to become weary,
The horse longing for the carter to sleep,
The carter longing for death.

Love was visible, waves were visible,
snow was visible, friendship was visible.
Words were visible.
Water was visible, and the reflection of things in the water.
The cool shade of cells in the heat of blood.
The moist side of life,
The east of sorrow in the human heart.
The season of drifting in the alley of women.
The scent of solitude in the alley of seasons.

A fan was visible in the hand of summer.

The seed’s journey to flowering.
The ivy’s journey from this house to that house.
The moon’s journey into the pond.
The eruption of flowers of regret from the soil.
The falling of young vine from the wall.
The raining of dewdrops on the bridge of sleep.
The leaping of joy from the ditch of death.
The passing of events behind words.

The battle of a hole with the light's desire.
The battle of a stair with the long leg of the Sun.
The battle of solitude with a melody.
The beautiful battle of pears with the emptiness of a basket.
The bloody battle of pomegranates with jaws.
The battle of 'Nazi'’s with branches of delicacy.
The battle of a parrot and eloquence.
The battle of the forehead with the coldness of prayer-stones.

The attack of the mosque tiles on prostration.
The attack of wind on the ascension of soap bubbles.
The attack of the army of butterflies on the program of 'Pest Control'.
The attack of dragonflies on the row of plumbers.
The attack of reed pens on leaden letters.
The attack of a word on a poet’s jaw.

The opening of a century by a poem.
The opening of a garden by a starling.
The opening of an alley by an exchange of greetings.
The opening of a town on the hands of three or four wooden horsemen.
The opening of a New Year by two dolls, one ball.

The murder of a ratchet on the mattress in the afternoon.
The murder of a story at the entrance of the alley of sleep.
The murder of a worry by the instruction of songs.
The murder of moonlight by the command of neon lights.
The murder of an oak tree by the hands of "government".
The murder of a depressed poet by a chimonanthus.

All was visible on the surface of the earth:
Order was walking in the alley of Greece.
An owl was howling in the 'Hanging Gardens'.
The wind was blowing a sheaf of history’s straws on Khaybar Pass towards the east
On the serene lake of Neghin, a boat was carrying flowers.
In Banares, at the entrance of each alley an eternal lamp was burning.

Peoples I saw.
Towns I saw.
Plains, mountains I saw.
Water I saw, soil I saw.
Light and darkness I saw.
And plants in light and plants in darkness I saw.
Creatures in light, creatures in darkness I saw.
And humans in light, and humans in darkness I saw.

I’m a native of Kashan, but
My city is not Kashan.
My city is lost.
I, with endurance. I, with fever,
Have built a house on the other side of nighttime.
In this home I am close to the humid anonymity of grass.
I hear the sound of the breath of the garden.
And the sound of darkness, when it drops from a leaf.
And the sound of brightness, coughing, from behind a tree,
The sneezing of water from every crack of rock,
The dripping of swallows from the ceiling of spring.
And the clear sound of opening and closing of the window of loneliness
And the pure sound of the mysterious casting off of the skin of love,
The concentration of the passion for soaring in the wings (of a bird)
And the cracking of soul's self-restraint.
I hear the footsteps of longing
And the lawful footsteps of blood in veins,
The pulsing of the dawn of the pigeons' well,
The beating of the heart of Friday night,

The flowing of clove pink in thoughts,
The pure neigh of truth from afar.
I can hear the sound of the blowing of matter
And the sound of the shoe of faith in the alley of excitement.
And the sound of rainfall on the wet eyelids of love,
on the sad music of adolescence,
on the song of pomegranate orchards.
And the sound of the shattering of the bottle of joy at night,
the tearing of the paper of beauty,
And the filling and emptying of the cup of nostalgia, of wind.

I am close to the beginning of the earth.
I take the pulse of flowers.
I am familiar with the wet fate of water, the green habit of trees.

My soul is flowing towards the new direction of objects.
My soul is young.
My soul sometimes from excitement, gets a cough.
My soul is jobless:
Raindrops, the cracks in bricks, it counts.
My soul sometimes, is as real as a stone on the road.

I didn't see two poplars to be foes.
I didn't see a willow selling its shade to the ground.
For free it offers, willow its branch to the crow.
Wherever there is a leaf, my passion blossoms.
A poppy bush, has bathed me in the flowing of being.

Like the wings of insects I know the weight of dawn.
Like a vase, I listen to the music of growth.
Like a basketful of fruit, I have strong fever for ripening.
Like a tavern, I stand on the border of languor.
Like a building at the lip of the sea I am anxious about the high eternal waves

Sunshine as much as you want, union as much as you want, reproduction as much as you want.

I am content with an apple
And with smelling a chamomile bush.
I with a mirror -a pure connection- am content.
I don't laugh if a balloon bursts.
I won't laugh if a philosophy halves the Moon.
I know the sound of flapping of a quail’s wings,
the colors of a bustard’s belly, the footprints of a mountain goat.
I know well where rhubarbs grow,
When starlings come, when partridges sing, when falcons die,
What the Moon in the dream of a desert is,
Death in the stem of desire
And the raspberries of pleasure, in the jaws of love-making.

Life is a lovely ritual.
Life has wings as vast as death,
It has a leap the size of love.
Life is not something that, on the windowsill of habit to be left forgotten by you and me.
Life is the rapture of a hand that reaps.
Life is the first black fig, which is in the acrid mouth of summer.
Life is the dimensions of a tree from the eyes of an insect.
Life is the experience that a bat has in the dark.
Life is the homesickness that a migrating bird feels.
Life is the whistle of a train that turns through the dream of a bridge.
Life is observing a garden from the obstructed windows of an airplane.
It is the news of the launch of a rocket to space,
touching the loneliness of the Moon,
the notion of smelling a flower on another planet

Life is the washing of a plate

Life is finding a penny in the brook of the street.
Life is the 'square root' of a mirror.
Life is a flower 'to the power' of eternity,
Life is the Earth multiplied by our heartbeats,
Life is the simple and monotonous 'geometry' of breaths

Wherever I am, so let me be,
The sky is mine.
The window, thinking, air, love, the Earth is mine
What importance does it have then
Sometimes if they grow,
mushrooms of nostalgia?

I, don’t know
That why some say: horses are noble animals, pigeons are beautiful.
And why there is no vulture in any person's birdcage.
What do clovers lack have that red tulips have.
Eyes should be washed, in another way we should see.
Words should be washed.
A word in itself should be the wind, a word in itself should be the rain.

Umbrellas we should shut.
In the rain we should walk.
Thoughts, and recollections, should be carried in the rain.
With all the people of the town, in the rain we should walk.
A friend, in the rain we should call on.
Love, we should seek in the rain.
In the rain we should sleep with women.
In the rain we should play.
In the rain we should write things, speak, plant lotuses
Getting drenched from time to time,
swimming in the pond of 'right now', is what life is.

Let us undress:
Water is one foot away.

Let us taste brilliance.
Weigh the night of a village, the sleep of a deer.
Let us feel the warmth of a stork's nest,
tread not on the Law of Lawn,
loosen the knot of tasting in the vineyard.
And open our mouthes if the Moon emerges.
And not say that night is a bad thing.
And not say that the glowworm is unaware of a garden's perspicacity.

And Let us bring baskets.
Take all this red, all this green.

Let us have bread and cheese in the mornings.
And plant a sapling at every turn of a sentence.
And pour between two syllables the seed of silence.
Let us not read a book in which the wind doesn’t blow
And a book in which the surface of dew is not wet
and a book in which cells don't have dimensions.
Let us not wish the mosquito would fly off the fingertip of nature.
And not wish that the leopard would go out of the door of creation.
And let us understand that if worms didn't exist, life would have lacked something.
And if caterpillars didn't exist, the Law of Trees would have suffered a blow.
And if death didn't exist, our hands would have sought something.
And let us know if light didn't exist, the living logic of flying would have gone astray.
And let us know that before corals, there was a void in the thoughts of seas.

And let us not ask where we are,
Let us smell the fresh petunias of the hospital.

And let us not ask where the fountain of luck is.
And let us not ask why the heart of truth is blue.
And let us not ask what breezes, what nights the fathers of our fathers enjoyed.

Behind our backs there isn't a thriving space.
Behind our backs no bird sings.
Behind our backs no wind blows.
Behind our backs the green window of poplar is closed.
Behind our backs dust has settled over the whirligigs.
Behind our backs what there is is the weariness of history.
Behind our backs the memory of waves throw cold shells of silence on the coast.

let us go to the lip of the sea,
cast nets in the water
and catch freshness from the water.

Let’s pick up a pebble from the ground
and feel the weight of existence.

let us curse not the Moonlight if we have fever
(Sometimes I have seen in fever, the moon descends,
and hands reach the ceiling of heaven.
I have noticed, the goldfinch sings better.
Sometimes a wound that I have had under my feet
have taught me the ups and downs of the ground.
Sometimes in my sickbed the size of a flower has multiplied,
and increased it has, the diameter of an orange, the radius of a lantern.)
And let us not fear death
(Death is not the end of the pigeon.
Death is not a cricket’s inversion.
Death flows in the soul of acacias.
Death has a seat in the pleasant climate of thinking.
Death in the spirit of the village's night speaks of morning.
Death with a bunch of grapes comes into the mouth.
Death sings in the red larynx of the throat.
Death is responsible for the beauty of a butterfly’s wings.
Death sometimes picks basil.
Death sometimes drinks vodka.
Sometimes it is in the shade watching us.
and we all know
The lungs of pleasure, are full of the oxygen of death.)

Let us not shut the door on the alive speech of appreciation which we hear from behind the wattled twigs of sound.

Let us remove the curtain:
Let us allow 'feeling' to get some fresh air.
Let us allow adolescence to dwell under any bush it wishes.
Let us allow instinct to play.
To take off its shoes and following the seasons, leap on the flowers.
Let us allow solitude to sing.
To write things.
To go to the street.

Let us be simple.
Let us be simple whether at a teller's window or under a tree.

It is not our job, discovering the 'secret' of the red rose,
Our job maybe is
to, in the charm of the red rose, become swimmers.
To camp behind wisdom.
To wash hands in the rapture of a tree leaf before sitting at the dining table.
In the mornings when the sun, rises let us get born again.
Let us let our excitements fly.
Let us upon the perception of space, color, sound and the window sprinkle water .
Let the sky settle between two syllables of existence.
Let us fill and empty our lungs with eternity.
Take the load of knowledge off the shoulders of the swallow.
Let us reclaim the name from clouds,
from plane trees, from mosquitos, from summer.
On the wet feet of rain let us climb to the heights of compassion.
Let us open the door on mankind, light, plants and insects.

Our job maybe is
between the lotus flower and the century
to run after the song of the truth.

Sohrab Sepehri

Kashan, village of Chenar (plane tree), summer of 1343 (1964)
Translated by Ikram Kurdi, Slêmanî, Iraq, 2008.

Gadis Peminta-Minta

Setiap kita bertemu, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil
Senyummu terlalu kekal untuk kenal duka
Tengadah padaku, pada bulan merah jambu
Tapi kotaku jadi hilang, tanpa jiwa

Ingin aku ikut, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil
Pulang ke bawah jembatan yang melulur sosok
Hidup dari kehidupan angan-angan yang gemerlapan
Gembira dam kemayaan riang

Duniamu yang lebih tinggi dari menara ketedral
Melintas-lintas di atas air kotor, tapi yang begitu kauhafal
Jiwa begitu murni, terlalu murni
Untuk membagi dukaku

Kalau kau mati, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil
Bulan di atas itu, tak ada yang punya
Dan kotaku, ah kotaku
Hidupnya tak lagi punya tanda.

~ Toto Sudarto Bachtiar (1929-2007)

Insan

Hakikat dari manusia adalah du'a;
Selainnya, adalah "kosong";
Kosong!

Kuta
22:27
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Penjara

Kenapa aku berada dalam penjara ini;
Dan, kenapa aku mahu terus dipenjarakan;
Apakah aku sudah/mahu menikmati hidup, hidup di luar, luar yang bukan dipenjara?;
Ah, penjara tetap penjara;
Luar, atau dalam, keduanya boleh menjadi penjara;
Penjara dalam erti Shari'ati--sungguh benar--adalah: alam, ego, masharakat, dan sejarah;
Penjara bukanlah fizikal.

Kuta
22:15
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Melampaui Diri

Aku dan Dia
dalam dua jarak
nikmat atau kerja
langsung atau tak-langsung
bebas atau takluk
bertemu masingnya setelah pendauran

Demikianlah
subjek dan objek
bergarisnya pada waktu
apakah itu keselesaan, atau kesengsaraan?
namanya pun fenomenologi Levinas

Tapi
tapi ada lagi sebuah pertanyaan
pertanyaan etika
atas dasar apa Aku mahu menundukkannya?

Rawasari
11: 13 pagi