Forough Farrokhzad – searchable text

For original page – click here


Only the Voice remains

Why should I stop, why?
the birds have flown off through the breadth of the blue
the horizon looks vertical
the horizon looks vertical and movement like lifting up
and at the edge of my sight
shining planets revolve.
From that height, the earth begins to multiply
and pocktes of air
turn into tunnels reaching down.
The day is an enormity
that cannot be contained in the mind of the worm that is the daily paper.

Why should I stop?
the path lies through the capillaries of life
the moon’s nurturing womb
will kill all the defective cells
and in the chemical space after sunrise
it is only the voice –-
the voice that will be absorbed into the atoms of time.
Why whould I stop?

What can a swamp be?
What can it be except the spawning ground of petrifying vermin?
The mind of a morgue is measured by bloated corpses
dastards have hidden their baleful deeds
in darkness
and the cockroach — yes, the roach
when it begins to speak
Why should I stop?

Soliciting cooperation from the lead letterpress is useless
not all the work of leaden letters
can rescue one petty idea.
I come from a dynasty of vegetation
breathing this stale air bothers me,
the bird who had died taught me to remember the flight.

The end of all forces is union, union
with the sun’s luminous essence
flowing into the intellect of light.
It is only natural
for wooden windmills to fall apart,
why should I stop?

I will hold a sheaf of unripe wheat
under my breasts
and nurse it.

Only the voice, the voice, the voice alone. . . .
The sound of water’s clear will to flow
the sound of starlight flowing into the earth’s vaginal membrane
the sound of meaning being conceived
and of the expanding mind of shared love
the voice, the voice, the voice, only the voice remains.

In the land of the midgets
standards of measurement
have forever revolved around zero,
why should I stop?
I pledge allegiance to the four elements
and shall not leave the task of drafting my heart’s protocol
to the fiefdom of the blind.

What have I to do with the long howl of savagery
in a beast’s sexual organ
what have I to do with the puny worm inanely penetrating a fleshy vacuum.

The blood-stained lineage of red roses ties me to life
the blood-stained lineage of red roses, you know!

My heart is pressed
my heart is pressed
I walk to the balcony
and move my fingers along the stretched skin of the night:
connecting lights are off
connecting lights are off.

No one will introduce me
to the sun
no one will take me
to the feast of sparrows.

Remember the flight
the bird is a dying thing.