The bunch of sun

AREFANI MEHRDAD

Your hands and your feet were fifteen years old and

 anxious, you ran for an obscure search

 on the glares of glass and teargas

your first poems are written (were written) on the walls
… a metaphor of grenade and life…

horns and joys

cars with lit fires

the perfume with the water of pink and the violets

then, you danced and the trucks transported New Year's day
for you they was songs offered to the sky
you whistled the universe in the streets

who pushed

very of a blow

in your heart

the flags
your hands and your feet were twenty years old and

you sauntered (went) in a world which did not have an answer (without answer)
… walls with the spots of grenade…

each morning to meet the sun

you rested behind a small square (square)

your eyes, the best book of the world, you closed them…
who was the draft of your face with theobscure one striped (streaked) on the cover
a voice of the court was heard
undoubtedly it was not the beat of garlics of the angels

undoubtedly that, was not the noise of joy of the children in the festival of Wednesday (Čahâršambé-sourî)
undoubtedly it was not the noise of fires of artifices of New Year's day
you

you divided only apples
who had come clandestinely (in seal) in your universe with the summer
you eat an apple with fifteen people

the orchards ran in your dreams

and apple trees

pushed in the eyes

sprinkled by the tears

when you awoke
the trees had fallen by ground

you spoke about the gardening

and of the capacity to cultivate fruits

who each one

could have nourished fifteen thousand people

and the others laughed and
you always insisted that it is possible…

you wanted all the windows open

you said: at every moment an event can occur
they closed your eyes with your way of dream

you sauntered (went) in a world which did not have an answer
each evening to meet the sun
you took the hundred step behind a small square (square)

you spoke, you spoke

nobody included/understood what you said

nobody saw the sky

who hid in your eyes
and the ceiling in blue coloured, during (during) the nights
your eyes were released to see the father and the mother
and your friends with their memories of military service

without arm, foot

with the rings in the pocket

lights of the festival

… like wire of pearls and
flying rockets scintillated the night

formerly (formerly)

the mane ensanglantée of Alborz had crossed your veins
the goats of mountain had seen it

companion of the sun, you ran until the lombes of horizon
the beat of the partridge wings frightened the mountain

sixty lakes dryness and a hundred and four twenty posts of telegraph
were your indentity card

one could not count stars

of flag in flag the universes resemble each other (are similar)
now you goes in the color in the light in the garland
 
2

impossible time

impossible
you look at and you call me
you light the window (you draws aside the curtain)… I become your breakfast
you put the step in the street… I become your shoes

arrive a seizing light

… you rafraichis the figure,
the objects will be born, brilliant and pure

the windows breathe the life

you make love under the sky without cloud… for you I become a smile

you passes the streets and the passages gently

all that you look at is music
like if, it is the festival

like if, it is New Year's day

as if it is the life

you turn the head and you are launched

the place, as a fruit in hell is soft

the day was like a flower on the blazing mouths
now:
sat on its shoulders, ash

in the coldness of the breaths

faces without the mouth, eye

they made the tail in waiting

you put the step in silence and you are tired

for you I become the bench…

as a new-born baby without name you wanted the life

 the fifteen years age was the bunch of sun

now you are remained amazed on the names and them

you draws aside the curtain

to hear the travelling merchant and the new fruits (early products)
you make confidence… with the research of times

impossible
you look at and you call me
you light the window (you draws aside the curtain)… I become your breakfast
you put the step in the street… I become your shoes

arrive a seizing light

… you rafraichis the figure,
the objects will be born, brilliant and pure

the windows breathe the life

you make love under the sky without cloud… for you I become a smile

you passes the streets and the passages gently

all that you look at is music
like if, it is the festival

like if, it is New Year's day

as if it is the life

you turn the head and you are launched

the place, as a fruit in hell is soft

the day was like a flower on the blazing mouths
now:
sat on its shoulders, ash

in the coldness of the breaths

faces without the mouth, eye

they made the tail in waiting

you put the step in silence and you are tired

for you I become the bench…

as a new-born baby without name you wanted the life

 the fifteen years age was the bunch of sun

now you are remained amazed on the names and them

… when today my mother

with streets and scrapes-ciels, and the windows which beat in
the light
throw me in the destiny

the destiny, it is the other name of the hell

the destiny, it is my inevitable life in the years without April (without paradise)
the road, begins my hands

my eye made ensanglanter the horizon

by which with dimensions is necessary it to leave… north or the south it is similar
I would draw the desires everywhere where I am (anywhere that I would be, I would draw the desires)
now:
the stars are extinct (the stars do not shine any more)

neons (white lights), silence, and poetry

look at themselves