For Heydar Yaghma
They make me tremble with astonishment:
This song lost in itself
And this night where a hand seeks
The perfection of a sleeping face!
Naive notes which the translucent green of the wind
And the joyful yellow of the daisies,
Both besieged by the gentleness of dawn,
Scatter over the unpronounceable elegance of the hills.
Unnameable burgeoning of the possibilities of being,
Urgency of day to rush
Into the fine cracks of the soul!
The infinity of every word,
The sowing of the stream of syllables
Knocking against the innocent lucidity of a young heart!
You are struck dumb by a life beyond repair,
By the language of nasturtiums
And the lively scent of modest wallflowers,
You turn your face away
From the fainthearted brightness of a white morning
And you turn, gripped by the unanimity of so many rituals,
Towards the slow flowing of the age-old river!