Forough Farrokhzad - The Conquest of the Garden

<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2QJSeWQoKyA/SLKA5SOWsJI/AAAAAAAAD0w/rUaJUpTDvXw/s1600-h/forugh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2QJSeWQoKyA/SLKA5SOWsJI/AAAAAAAAD0w/rUaJUpTDvXw/s400/forugh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238391038218252434" border="0" /></a><br /><p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >That crow which flew over our heads<br /> and descended into the disturbed thought<br /> of a vagabond cloud<br /> and the sound of which traversed<br /> he breadth of the horizon<br /> like a short spear<br /> will carry the news of us to the city. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >Everyone knows, <br /> everyone knows<br /> that you and I have seen the garden<br /> from that cold sullen window<br /> and that we have plucked the apple<br /> from that playful, hard-to-reach branch. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >Everyone is afraid <br /> everyone is afraid, but you and I<br /> joined with the lamp<br /> and water and mirror and we were not afraid. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I am not talking about the flimsy linking<br /> of two names<br /> and embracing in the old pages of a ledger. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I'm talking about my fortunate tresses<br /> with the burnt anemone of your kiss<br /> and the intimacy of our bodies,<br /> and the glow of our nakedness<br /> like fish scales in the water.<br /> I am talking about the silvery life of a song<br /> which a small fountain sings at dawn.<br /> we asked wild rabbits one night<br /> in that green flowing forest<br /> and shells full of pearls<br /> in that turbulent cold blooded sea<br /> and the young eagles<br /> on that strange overwhelming mountain<br /> what should be done. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >Everyone knows, <br /> everyone knows<br /> we have found our way<br /> Into the cold, quiet dream of phoenixes:<br /> we found truth in the garden<br /> In the embarrassed look of a nameless flower,<br /> and we found permanence<br /> In an endless moment<br /> when two suns stared at each other. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I am not talking about timorous whispering<br /> In the dark.<br /> I am talking about daytime and open windows<br /> and fresh air and a stove in which useless things burn<br /> and land which is fertile<br /> with a different planting<br /> and birth and evolution and pride.<br /> I am talking about our loving hands<br /> which have built across nights a bridge<br /> of the message of perfume<br /> and light and breeze.<br /> come to the meadow<br /> to the grand meadow<br /> and call me, from behind the breaths<br /> of silk-tasseled acacias<br /> just like the deer calls its mate. </span></p> <span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >The curtains are full of hidden anger<br /> and innocent doves<br /> look to the ground<br /> from their towering white heigh<br /><br />From <a href="http://www./">forughfarrokhzad.org</a><br /></span>