Poet: Mehdi Akhavan Sales (M. Omid)
Translation: Mahvash Shahegh Hariri
They are not going to answer your greeting,
their heads are in their jackets.
Nobody is going to raise his head,
to answer a question or to see a friend.
The eyes cannot see beyond the feet,
the road is dark and slick.
If you stretch a friendly hand towards anybody,
he hardly brings his hand out of his pocket,
because the cold is so bitter.
The breath which comes out of his lungs,
becomes a dark cloud,
and stands like a wall in front of your eyes.
While your own breath is like this,
what do you expect from your distant or close friends?
gentle Messiah, O, dirty dressed monk,
the weather is so ungently cold.
You be warm and happy!
You answer my greeting and open the door!
This is me, your nightly guest, an unhappy gypsy;
this is me, a kicked up, afflicted stone,
this is me, a low insult of creation, an untuned melody.
am neither white nor black.
I am colorless.
Come and open the door, see how cheerless I am.
O, my dear host, your nightly guest is shivering outside.
There is no hail outside, no death;
if you hear any sound, it is the sound of cold and teeth.
I have come tonight to pay up my loan.
I have come tonight to leave my debt beside my mug.
are you saying, that,
it is too late, it is dawn, it is day?
What you see on the sky,
is not the redness after dawn,
it is the result of the winter's slap,
On the sky's cheeks.
And your universal sun, dead or alive,
is hidden by the long coffin of the dark.
O, partner go and get the wine ready,
the days are same as nights
are not going to answer your greeting,
the air is gloomy, doors are closed,
the heads are in jackets, the hands are hidden,
the breaths are clouds, the people are tired and sad,
the trees are crystallized skeletons, the earth is low-spirited
the roof of the sky is low,
the sun and moon are hazy,
It is winter.
Winter of 1955, Tehran