دست‌نوشته‌هایی پیرامون ادبیات، هنر و جامعه از خشایار مصطفوی
درباره‌ِ‌ی من About me:

Alongside the wind

Alongside the wind
By Khashayar Mostafavi
Translations by Buna Alkhas
From: Crimson Snow from Azure Skies: A Compendium of Contemporary and Classical Persian Poetry, Page 51


A child sits in the cradle of a hug,
Rocking from fear of crying perhaps.
Mother is alone - no, there is no father
He has gathered up all his pride among his bullet clips.

He has gone, never to return again unless wrapped inside
Photo By: Guy Le Querrec
A few layers of black plastic.
Uncle brought back a pick-up truck - a gift from the war - After-shock stricken human bones.  I have permission Until tomorrow, to name them one by one, but
It’s a shame my heart is constantly menstruating.
Mother is alone - no, uncle is here -
I play with myself and am frightened.
Just let my swollen breasts gather up the saliva from the Tongues of the drivers, merchants, bakers - oh father,
It is such a pity that the mouths of all my would-be lovers Smell of chicken and rice, yoghurt and onions;
And Uncle is worst of all.
Mother is alone,
She says that not all the men of the world are uncles. (Okay, I’ll call you father.) -  Oh father, father, I am cold – No, I didn’t mean anything by that - I just wanted to say the weather was getting cold.

Mother is alone. Even the uncles have gone.
I fumble around under the white sheets and at times, 
Out of happiness, I slide over to the window to see if the Uncle with the bunch of wildflowers is still standing by the wall, enchanted by my pink slippers –
Or has he too gone to hell?
It’s been windy all night; on the roads, in the streets,
In my head.
And the good news is that mother is no longer alone,
She should be at God’s side by now.
And I am doing fine, making the rounds from morning ‘til night. Pretending to spend a lifetime with this one or That one. Too bad I didn’t know what a good thing this Crocodile brand razorblade was and how nicely it rips Apart tissue and veins and nerves and a few other places.
God, these few imaginary places. Do I rip you apart as Well, or you me?
I am not alone here; there are ants as well, with a whole Bunch of feet and a world of patience.
I am joyful; I love everyone, even these silent ants who Busy themselves on my body and I am so happy that the Sun has foolishly gone elsewhere to take care of office Business and daily affairs…   

   
By Khashayar Mostafavi
Translations by Buna Alkhas