Thursday, April 29, 2004

Word to the wise: on days when you are not feeling particularly emotionally stable, stay far away from the work of the late, sad, and soulful Fereydoun Foroughi.

now excuse me while i go listen to Ghasedak and this live recording of Do ta Cheshme siah dari another 12 times in a row.

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and, now, maybe an hour or so after writing the above, i feel the urge to write for you the lyrics of ghasedak (to which i have been continuously listening) along with another one of my quick translations.

First, the persian version:

Ghasedak

marge-an laleheye sorkh
kafan-e khande be rooye lab bood
kard-e on ayeneha
shabah-e fajehay-e dar shab bood

mordan-e on shaparakha
koshtan-e ghasedakha
khabari az shoomi kar midad
nafasash naleyey gham dar sar midad
ashian roo be kharabi miraft
tan-e poosede gavahi midad

khoob be een harf nemiandeesheed
ke kafan bayad bord
ke nafas bayad dad
va be jaye hameye boodanha
hameye didanha
lahzeha mande be yad
shekle andeesheye marg dar oost
hameye hasti-e oo rafte be bad

mordan-e on shaparakha
koshtan-e ghasedakha

oo saraseeme be donbale talafi miraft
be delash zakhme ghadamhaye tajavoz mande
oo nadanad ke pey mordane khod
mikeshad harche esalat bagheest

marge-an laleheye sorkh
kafan-e khande be rooye lab bood
kard-e on ayeneha
shabah-e fajehay-e dar shab bood

mordan-e on shaparakha
koshtan-e ghasedakha

And here is the translation below. Persian, of course, is a largely gender-neutral language, so insert whatever gender you wish, i will go for "she".

Dandelion

the death of that red tulip
was the shroud of laughter on the lips
the dust on the mirrors
was the ghost of a tragedy in the night

the dying of the butterflies
the killing of the dandelions
was an omen of what was to come

her breath was a sigh of agony
the nests turned to destruction
her withered body gave proof

she did not contemplate this:
that shrouds must be carried
that breaths must be given
and that instead of all the beings
all the seeings
moments remain in the memory

the idea of dying has taken shape in her
all of her being has gone with the wind

the dying of the butterflies
the killing of the dandelions

in her confusion she sought to make up for it all
in her heart remains the wounds and footsteps of rape
she doesn't know that following her death
she will take with her whatever authenticity and honesty remains

the death of that red tulip
was the shroud of laughter on the lips
the dust on the mirrors
was the ghost of a tragedy in the night

the dying of the butterflies
the killing of the dandelions