My death will arrive one day, It may be a bright, spring dawn. It may be a distant winter dusk. Or perhaps a silent night- in a foggy, frozen fall.

Forough Farrokhzad (selected from Later on*, 1958) 

My death will arrive one day,
It may be a bright, spring dawn.
It may be a distant winter dusk.
Or perhaps a silent night-
in a foggy, frozen fall.

That day,
My hands will fall on the pallor of a page,
My rhyming thoughts will flee from their cage,
My mind losing to the vibration of this last verse,
there will remain- no sorrow, no pain, no rage.

The Earth,
incessantly calling my name,
they will arrive to place me inside the grave.
Oh, perhaps my lovers, at all midnights-
will put some flowers on my lone place.

**&**

Days so quickly get to weeks,
And weeks become months as fast;
You’ll stare into the eyes of the clock,
waiting in vain my letters, my calls.

But then,
My lifeless body will calmly rest-
far from you and the pounds of your heart-
in the voiceless arms of Mother Earth.

Later on,
The sun, the wind and the rain,
will polish the cold stone of my grave:
And lastly I’ll be free- forever free-
from the myths of return,
name and fame.

(Trans.: MD, July 2006, The Hague)
.

PS. This poem is first published in Forough Farrokhzad’s anthology published when she was 23 years old.

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Donovan Crow
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