A CALL OF THE BEGINNING



Where are my shoes?

Who was it that called me: “ Sohrab?”

The call was known to me as it is with the air and the leaf.

Mother is sleeping;
And so
Manuchehr, Parvaneh and maybe all other folks in town.

It’s a night in Khordad and the seconds are ticking away as tranquilly as a mourning song,

And a cool breeze creeps into my green-brimmed blanket;
It takes my sleep away.

I’m sunk into a sense of departure.

My pillow’s staffed with the songs that the swallows’ feathers sing,
Morning will dawn soon
And so the sky will vanish into this drinking bowl;

I should go tonight.

For time and time again, I have been talking through the wide open window to the people all around here,
But heard no word less about Time at all.

No eyes were ever glaring enthusiastically at the earth.
Neither ever was anyone overwhelmed by looking at the garden.

No one ever cared for the magpie hanging on the farm.

My heart aches as sadly as the gloomy clouds,
When I see our next door teenage girl, sitting under the rarest
Elm tree, ever grown on the earth, just idling away, reading tales.
But there are other things that matter; the unique moments of ascension.
Like the moment I met a poetess, so avidly devouring the universe
That eventually the sky laid eggs in her eyes.

And, on a certain night, someone asked me,” how long does it take me to get to the rise of the grape?”

I should go tonight.

I should pack up tonight the very suitcase that can solely bear my shirt of solitude, and head straight for the place where the primordial trees are in sight.

I should move toward that wordless land of magnificence who’s been calling me over and over again.

Someone again called me: “Sohrab!”
Where are my shoes?

By Sohrab Sepehri
Translated By Esmaeil Arib 2006