The Fatal Wave
The drops of the fatal wave,
the wet hand in the wet hand,
intend to become suddenly free,
from the dust of their body.
In the look of the sad sky,
the heartrendering scenes,
the bloody hands.
The value of our life has become the
upside down leaf.
It results the rush of death,
the farm without harvest,
the drops of the fatal wave,
unaware of the fence of night,
run away from the memories.
The killed of event is the poison of our
epoche.
I tell as a bird about my nest in the thought of travel
because of the pain of love.
The Broken Wing
The color of its wing is the sign
of freedom.
Flew in the paradise with other emigrants,
in my long reflection the wild pretty swan.
It was a captive for the bad hunters.
Its wing was bloody, it hurt by an arrow,
the sad broken wing.
Groaning of the pain, it fell in a vast lake.
It rained intensely.
The tears of the sad sky kissed its bloody sore.
The swan is in fact the nice country of pride.
I dream its flight again in the sky.
The Shore Of Silence
Grumbled again the tired wave of travel
in the charm of being in love with the shore of silence.
The reminiscences of slavery were the bitter mysteries of its
seclusion.
Finally in freedom it intended not to like except the sad melodies.
It addressed the thirsty soil with its clamor:
"O! soil, my melodies for you became the collisions of hope,
my drops for you the witnesses of life,
I only demand you to think alike,
you became the quiet share for my zenith."
The noble shore answered in this way:
"O! wave, pride of my stature,
spectator of my captivity,
firmness of my body,
your breast is my sky,
honour of the mother sea, hero of waters!
The years this silence nestled in my heart.
The oppression of the brand of the sunshine,
acquaintance of my wound,
the sky is not any more a sympathetic friend for me,
the story of the stars is not in my mouth,
the captivity of earth became my bitter narrative."
BY: Taraneh Javanbakht
