Sunday Poem

In This Deadend

They smell your mouth.
To find out if you have told someone,
I love you!
They smell your heart!

Such a strange time it is, my dear;

They punish Love
At thoroughfares
By flogging.

We must hide our love in dark closets.

In this crooked deadend of a bitter cold
They keep their fire alive
By burning our songs and poems;
Do not place your life in peril by your thoughts!

Such a strange time it is, my dear;

He who knocks on your door at middle-night,
His mission is to break your lamp!
We must hide our lights in dark closets!

Behold! butchers are on guard at thoroughfares
With their bloodstained cleavers and chopping boards;

Such a strange time it is, my dear!

They cut off the smiles from lips,
and the songs from throats!

We must hide our emotions in dark closets!

They barbecue canaries
On a fire of lilacs and jasmine!

Such a strange time it is, my dear!

Intoxicated by victory,
Satan is enjoying a feast at our mourning table!

We must hide our God in dark closets!

by Amad Shamloo

translation: Mahvash Shahegh & dan Newsome

Like what you're reading? Don't keep it to yourself!
Share on Facebook
Facebook
Tweet about this on Twitter
Twitter
Share on Reddit
Reddit
Share on LinkedIn
Linkedin
Email this to someone
email