Fath-e Bagh

Garden Conquered

That crow which flew over our heads
and descended into the disturbed thought
of a vagabond cloud
and the sound of which traversed the breadth of the horizon
like a short spear
will carry the news of us to the city.

Everyone knows,
everyone knows
that you and I have seen the garden
from that cold sullen window
and that we have plucked the apple
from that playful, hard-to-reach branch.

Everyone is afraid
everyone is afraid,

yet you and I
joined the water, the mirror, and the lamp
and we were not afraid.

I am not talking about the flimsy linking
of two names
and embracing in the old pages of a ledger.

I'm talking about my charmed tresses
and the burning peonies of your kiss

and the mutinous intimacy of our bodies
and our nakedness glittering
like fish scales in water
it is a matter of the little fountain's silver song

sung at dawn.

In the green, flowing forest
in the anxious, cold-blooded sea
in the strange, haughty mountain
we asked one night
of the wild hares, the pearl-filled shells, the eagles
"What is to be done?"

Everyone knows,
everyone knows
we have found our way
Into the cold, quiet repose
of Simurghs

we found truth in the garden
In the bashful look of a nameless flower,
and eternity in the never-ending moment
when two suns gazed at each other.

It is not a matter of fearful whispers in the dark
it is a matter of daylight, open windows, and fresh air
and an oven where useless things are burnt
and an earth pregnant with new crop
it is a matter of birth, and completion, and pride
it is a matter of our amorous hands
connecting the nights
with perfume's messages of breeze and light.

Come to the meadow
come to the large meadow
and call me from behind the breath of Acacia blossoms
like a deer calling his mate.

The curtains are full of hidden anger
and innocent white doves
from the heights of their white towers
look to the earth below.

-Forugh Farrokhzad