The Charm Of Spring

I passed in a garden
with the gaits of the wind.
I saw the owner of garden
with the art of love
in the look of a rose.
The branches of all the
trees were ornamented with
the blossom of the apple.
Bravo, the art of the charm
of the spring. The green
velvet of the grass has
spread its skirt for seeing
the munificence in the
hearts of my companions.
Flowing with the joy, a pond
in the garden took the fishes
that song the love melodies to
the abode of dream. Bravo, the
art of the charm of the spring.

I heard the joy of love in
the clamour of hundred
swallows. Then I saw the
feast of the trees that had
the branches ornamented
with the blossoms of love.
They song together the
melody of unity: bravo
the art of the charm of
the spring.


The Broken Wing

The color of its wing is the sign
of freedom. Flew in the paradise
with other emigrants, in my long
reflection the wild pretty swan.
It was a captive for the bad hunters.
Its wing was bloody, it hurt by an
arrow, the sad broken wing. Groaning
of the pain, it fell in a vast lake. It
rained intensely. The tears of the sad
sky kissed its bloody sore. The swan
is in fact the nice country of pride.
I dream its flight again in the sky.


The Shore Of Silence

Grumbled again the tired wave of travel
in the charm of being in love with the
shore of silence. The reminiscences of
slavery were the bitter mysteries of its
seclusion. Finally in freedom it intended
not to like except the sad melodies. It
addressed the thirsty soil with its clamor:
"O! soil, my melodies for you became
the collisions of hope, my drops for you
the witnesses of life, I only demand you
to think alike, you became the quiet share
for my zenith."

The noble shore answered in this way:
"O! wave, pride of my stature, spectator
of my captivity, firmness of my body,
your breast is my sky, honour of the
mother sea, hero of waters! The years
this silence nestled in my heart. The
oppression of the brand of the sunshine,
acquaintance of my wound, the sky is not
any more a sympathetic friend for me,
the story of the stars is not in my mouth,
the captivity of earth became my bitter

Taraneh Jawanbakht







 poet's self- bio.