
Sadness
They smell your mouth
in case you said, ‘I love you.’
They smell your heart
in case there is a flame hidden in it.
It’s a strange time, beloved.
And they whip Love at the roadside post.
One must hide love in the pantry.
In this twisted wintry cul-de-sac
the fire
is kept burning
with the fuel of anthems and poetry.
Do not risk thinking.
It’s a strange time, beloved,
He who pounds on the door at night time
has come to kill the lantern.
One must hide light in the pantry.*
Now the butchers are stationed at every crossroads
with bloodied block and cleaver.
It’s a strange time, beloved.
And they carve a smile on the lips
and a song on the mouth.
One must hide joy in the pantry
The canary becomes a kebab
on the fires of rose and jasmine
It’s a strange time, beloved.
The drunken victorious demon
is feasting at the table of our death.
God too must be hidden in the pantry.
Ahmad Shamlou (1925-2000) translated by Martin and Farah V. Turner
*Pastou … hidden inner room or sanctum for food storage.
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