Time, it is dream time,
time without order or coherence,
time of agitated appearances,
of existence mixed with dust.
It’s time without time
when you can see stillness
invade the fleeting moment,
when you can return once more
to the fables and shadows of old.
It’s time when years of endured pain
fit the volume of an instant,
when a cold sigh rushes
down the length of the century.
Time, it’s dream time,
when you can’t distinguish
between life and death,
when thought and image
have lost all measure,
unbounded by any order or style.
It’s time when you sit in the clouds
sprinkling stars,
when you reach for the moon
to squeeze an orange,
when to escape the jaws of a reptile
you dive in the well of destruction.
What knots can you unknot
with your hands tied behind your back?
What road can you travel
with your feet worn out by rocks?
Time, it’s dream time,
when the diviners of dread are so busy
performing ceremonies of mourning and death.
Wherefore, O Lord, in our dreams
this pestilence after pestilence?
Wherefore, O lord, these shadows?*
……………………………..**
* Shadow, as in “Shadow of God” (zel-ol-lah), familiar epithet for kings—trans.
** Dotted half-line in the original, presumably censored—trans.
Simin Behbahani’s English Translations from the book entitled A Cup of Sin Courtesy of Syracuse University Press
