After the epic of Siah-Kal

Narrator:

But

a curved dagger

alone

lies on a dish
across a lush feast table.

Host:

My Lords! My Lords!
Please,
treat my home as your own!

Narrator:

Into the guests' chalices
the slaves pour poison
from ancient decanters.
Their smiles tulips and lies.
With their aprons stretched out
they demand
reward
for offering death with ease.
The dead are laid
upon far off shelves,
the living in chests.
Around the lush table
we stare at the bloodless faces
of our fellow-guests:
Oh, wonder!
Who
are we?–
We're neither dead
laid on the far off shelves,
nor alive
in the chests.
Only the bloody
oorway
and the blood-stained carpet
bear witness that,
barefooted,
we've walked upon a path of swords.

Contenders:

… to sit at the table?
The women are gilded
with a sickly yellow slime!

Jester:

The garden without cherubs
is an incomplete beauty!

Mocking laughter.

Vagabond:

Hastens forward, and hastens past.

The bailiffs are saints.
The bailiffs are saints.
The bailiffs are saints.
The bailiffs are sain–

Cut with the sound of a bullet.
Long silence.
Mourners' drums and cymbals from far off.
Footsteps of slowly-moving mourners,
against the background of the eulogist's oration.
Now and then the drums and cymabals are faintly heard.

Eulogist:

In an epic tone.

See him off with a sweet tune
for
Satan was the Archangel
close and intimate.

"No!",

he shouted heedlessly,
altough his wings were his immortality,
although he knew that the cry
was the hopeless scream
of a broken-winged falling bird.
He was not downcast
nor ashamed of himself,
and did not pass in the cool shade:
his way was through the sun
even though blazing
and tasting of blood.
His head he kept high and proud;
although
he who keeps his head low
is immune
to the dark curse of the gallows.

Narrator:

With the same tone.

"You will deny",

they said,

"the song of the quail
and the murmur of the water
singing in freedom."

Vagabond:

This seemingly-minute,

however,

is the great truth of the world.
And the greatness of every sun
to the feeble-sighted seem

like an asteroid,

and the moon

like the paperish clipping

of a baby's fingernail;
and the ritual silver coin put in the baby's palm.
The moon,
the tiny fingernail,
and the silver farthing of deception!
But those who accept
deny themselves.
This is not the crown to be snatched from between two lions,
it's a kiss on the crown of the sun
and demands your life
together with your bone-ashes.

Eulogist:

The women

brought forth their loves,

their frames fevered
with the heat of acceptance and nurturing;
desire flaming up
from their waistlines.
And consummate beauty
was of chastity a cloak
on their nudity.

Women in Love:

Aside, lamenting

The root

the deepest root

calls aloud from the heart of the earth:

"The scent of the farthest flower bud

must turn into honey!"

Eulogist:

Mothers,

In their search for you,

have revived forgotten loves,
for

your spilt blood

was a noble experience.

Mothers:

The root

the deepest root

calls aloud from the heart of the earth:

"The scent of the farthest flower bud
must turn into honey!"

Oh, children!
Warm little children of earth,

who are killed innocent

to open up the chambers of Heaven
unto your parents!-
We're seeing those chambers

right now on earth,

not in the quivering mirage of a deceptive heaven,
with walls of steel
and shade of stone
under shadow-casting trees
whose green scent is the reminder of your blood
running

in the roots of a deep faith.

Eulogist:

Men are descending the green footpaths,
with love on their figures
inevitable like moss on a rock;
and wounds upon their breasts.
Their eyes affection and hate,
their teeth

in a smile of determination

are the hanging curved dagger of the moon
in the bandit night.
From the grim density

into the darkness

they bore a cold tunnel
(where beech and maple have grown in vain
and growing is a task
fulfilled by the yawning soil
even though the sun
with her shining blade

every morning cuts

a seedling's umbilical cord,

in an era when honour

is an astounding rarity

that disturbs the quiescence of the dead
not the repose of the living.)

Orator:

Oh, message fabricators, messengers!
What need is there
to imitate the saints
by sitting against the back-drop of a setting sun
in such a slow-passing day
and putting your head
in the sun's golden platter?
What need is there
to sit in a way
so that the sun's halo be seen

around your face?

That concealed-visible dagger
has already proclaimed
the "rightfulness" of this "divine" mission!

The four-beat rhythm of a drum from far away
It suddenly stops.
A long heavy silence.

Narrator:

The Demon

is sternly posing

upon an enormous pedestal of stone
with the spittle of a satisfied sneer

running down his chin.

Envoys

from sea to sea, all over the land

knock on every door in search
and criers announce:

Far and near doors are knocked on.

Criers:

In changing numbers and from various distances.

"Virgins
worthy of the Lord!
Virgins worthy
of the Lord!"

Jester:

Aside

For the garden of decay
is a prized legacy!
The garden of decay.
The garden of decay.The garden of decay…

Narrator:

But

a shuddering question

whirls around you:

Contenders:

They have testified
that you've perceived
the time's boundless extent
in the four-syllabled cycle of the year;
you've testified
that you've seen
the God's secret

in human shape

and perpetuity

in love.

Would the Spring smile
in the bitter scent of the burning leaves
when the sun is spelt
in the fluffy snow spangle?

Jester:

Yes,

but just a sneer.

The bailiffs are saints!
The bailiffs
are saints!

Contenders:

…And the absolute truth of the world, now
is nothing but these two blood-dripping cynical eyes.

One Contender:

These two watchful eyes

in this head

lurking behind glass and stone
observing you.

Jester:

I know!
And if I trusted the truthfulness of my eyes
I would have known long before
that the image mirrored in the clarity of the sky
is nothing but my own distant image.

Orator:

You must keep silent
if your message is nothing

but lies

But

if you have the chance to moan

in freedom

then thunder out the message
and power it with your life.

Translated by Iraj Kaboli
and Khashayar Shahriari