Translated Poems  - Farrokh Tamimi





In my  fist I squeezed

the livid ink  of hate

and never waited  for the ink

to cry  like a little crow

and the crackle  of his back- bone

rouse my mind's cunning foxes

out of their siesta

from the fatigued bars of my  fingers

the ink dripped:

                drop by drop

and all the blotters in the office

soaked in that fluid livid,

and my secretary, lazy and ugly,

dabbed her white eye-lids with it .


Alas, my hate's border is not clear .

Many a time

have I limited the border  of hate's desert

with the wooden poles of fairness

and with the help of mistress.

Yet  a hand has always.

whisked away her help and the signed poles-

perhaps some heart's frozen chamber

awaits the warm miracle of woods.


Alas, my hate's border is not clear .

The bulk of work

and the hum of the air- conditioner

and the scent of soaked blotters

break my power to search.




 Read this poem in Persian
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