M. AZAD [10.113]

M. AZAD   

Mahmoud Moshref Azad Tehrani (Teherán, Diciembre 9, 1934 - Teherán, 19 de enero de 2006) fue un contemporáneo poeta persa M. Azad (م. آزاد) como su seudónimo. Algunos de sus poemas han sido musicados por cantantes iraníes. Gol-e Bagh-e Ashenaii (literalmente la flor del jardín conocido) es uno de sus poemas más famosos.

Colecciones Poemas:

M. Azad tiene cuatro poemarios: Diar-e Shab (La tierra de la noche), Aaineh ha Tohist (Los espejos están vacíos), Ghasideh-ye Boland-e Baad, (La larga oda de viento) y, Ba Man ​​Toloo Kon (Rise conmigo) y una colección de poemas, con el título de Gole Baaghe Aashnaai, publicado en el año 2000, que incluye 482 piezas de los libros anteriores y 108 nuevas piezas.

Sí, ésta emigración no tiene fin

Gritando, ella dijo:

"No es así,

el cielo que tú dices está en nuestra soledad"

¡El cielo que ellos nos decían?

Oh -qué lluvia- ¡yo sabía

que ella no sabe y habla en vano!

Gritando ella dijo:

"¡No es así!

Nosotros hemos venido a mirar la primavera

a mirar millones de soles.

¡para mirar la primavera!"

para mirar la primavera que a su vez llamaba a la tierra para

mirar.

Ella cerró los ojos

Y en mi mente, el bote verde, adornado con las llamas

se unió a la primavera.

Selección de Poesía Contemporánea iraní

Traducción de Fariba Gurguin

Among the Kind 

What has happened to us that

No more

Do we compose a poem for the jungle

(A poem for the town),

A poem for the rose,

For a heart,

For a wound,

Or for a star?

Has the glory of the event caused the mass of poets

To get confounded?

Has your lyre ruptured,

And your plectrum is broken,

That you are sitting subdued and unbelieving

While the river is gliding by.

You have given up your ruptured lyre with your plectrum and

You are awake

And from your ivy covered narrow window whose red color

Stretches to the silent solitude

(You cry and do not cry!)

As if there is no window,

With heavy curtains,

And in your melancholy night ghosts

Are bending

With trembling hands.

In the assembly of the kind,

I wanted to say:

"Friends....",

For God's.....

Pause ....., 

Rain!"

And it was a heavy bewilderment

And all that was there was hatred and damnation.

What nights I have seen

In the nocturnal privacy of friends,

With too much hue and cry

How heavy the bewilderment had sat?

In the assembly of the kind,

Those who cried 

For many years:

"Ah, voice of the prisoner,

Ah the last voice of voices,

Will not your complaint of disappointment ever

Dig a tunnel towards light

From any corner in this hateful night?"

Alas, I am sunk in my pain,

And in accompanying astonishment

I wanted to say:

At the morning twilight

The cry of the purple

Is cold and sterile!"

But how?

What a heavy bewilderment...!

Translated to English by M. Alexandrian

Letter 

Here, my dear!

I see the sun in front of me every evening

At the end of anemone-like horizon in my sleep: 

And the moon also - which is pale

And the town also - which is nameless.

Here your memory is always alive with me,

From the beginning of the red anemone-like awakening:

With streams - that flow

And towns - which are illuminated.

Here it is you is laughing , with a smile,

In the green eye of a silent passerby;

Awake - with a drunken sleep of last night,

With colorful garments -

And that cautious yet dark and light gaze;

Like the break of dawn,

Pure like ever,

Like your memory which is always with me.

It Is Not Man Only, Translated to English by M. Alexandrian

It is not man only who weeps:

I have seen birds,

I have seen the leave and wind and rain

Weeping.

Man only

Is not weeping.

It is not man only who sings:

I have heard songs from the stone,

And melodies from plants.

I myself have heard a song from the wind and the leave.

Man only

Is not a singer.

It is not man only who loves:

The sea and rain,

The sun and farms are all

Lovers.

It is not man only...

Many only is a big loneliness:

Man is breathing death,

His deadly dreams are destructive.

Translated to English by M. Alexandrian

Evening 

Like the bird who craves to die,

like a blossom which craves to wither,

like this silent paper bird,

it was sitting there,

looking like a bird

backing the rain:

the rain poured behind the window and stopped;

I was afraid to say:

- all blossoms are made of paper.

I was afraid to say:

- I had bought the bird from a peddler

about nine years ago 

and had emptied his eye sockets

of green glasses.

I was afraid to say:

my room

is silent and papery,

the rain behind the window is no rain.

Behind the window

the rain poured,

stopped,

I was afraid,

like this silent blossom

like this silent bird,

was sitting there 

backing the green window.

I was afraid that one night termites

had aroused a tempest!

Translated to English by M. Alexandrian