Forough Farrokhzad, iranian poet

Friday

My silent Friday,

My deserted Friday,

My Friday: sad, like dusty-

forsaken lanes.

My Friday,

The cold day of ailing, idle thoughts;

The moist day of endless, cruel bore,

My Friday, loaded with grief,

mournful of my fading faith,

and of my vain hope,

Oh, my Friday,

this renouncing day…

Oh, this empty room,

Oh, this empty room

Oh, this gloomy home!

These opaque walls, isolating me from attacks of youth,

these collapsing roofs on my short daydreams of light,

this place of solitude, reflection and doubt,

this space of hues and shapes, signs and sound,

all speak to me- of this invincible void.

My life

My life, like a mysterious river,

streamed into those silent, deserted days,

so calmly, and with a lot of pride.

My life, like a mysterious river,

Streamed into those empty, gloomy rooms,

so calmly and with a lot of pride.

Gift

I speak out of the deep of night

out of the deep of darkness

and out of the deep of night I speak.

If you come to my house, friend

bring me a lamp and a window I can look through

at the crowd in the happy alley.

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