{"id":73,"date":"2006-02-03T16:57:34","date_gmt":"2006-02-03T16:57:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/nucleus-import\/?p=73"},"modified":"2006-02-03T16:57:34","modified_gmt":"2006-02-03T16:57:34","slug":"pooya-azizi-two-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/pooya-azizi-two-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Pooya azizi- two poems"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><b>Spirit<\/b>      <\/p>\n<div class=\"rightbox\"><img src='https:\/\/mahmag.org\/nucleus-import\/media\/2\/20060203-pooyaazizi-2.JPG' width='180' height='135' alt='pooya azizi' \/><\/div>\n<p>\nFlock by flock they go,<br \/>\nCandles in their hands,<br \/>\nWith begrudged hands that strike and,<br \/>\nWith no time to spare.<\/p>\n<p>Theses butterflies that come dancing,<br \/>\nFrom the darkness of the sky,<br \/>\nTo the fine blue earth. <br \/>\n<!--more--><b>The Narratives of My Wooden Bed<\/b><\/p>\n<p>Let me talk of my wooden bed,<br \/>\nWho has covered himself with me,<br \/>\nWho has overflowed himself with me,<br \/>\nThat is void of this room,<br \/>\nAnd sometimes me whirling around this map.<\/p>\n<p>I feel,<br \/>\nThe hands of time are traveling fast,<br \/>\nAnd with them they take us,<br \/>\nIf the earth did not spin,<br \/>\nThen we people would have been static.<\/p>\n<p>I tell of the china of this wall<br \/>\nAnd the Africa of color,<br \/>\nOf myself,<br \/>\nI am stooped over the hands of time.<\/p>\n<p>And a map has risen within me,<br \/>\nAnd still my body does not reach the earth. <\/p>\n<p>These days \u2013 only carpets reach the door,<br \/>\nThe door &#8211; opens to my &#8211; outside.<\/p>\n<p>Room is a word that has a ceiling.  <br \/>\nIt doesn\u2019t have the moon,<br \/>\nWhich you can only see through the crack. <\/p>\n<p>My father says. <br \/>\n<b>(We are the ashes of a generation that has gone with the wind)<\/b><br \/>\nBut I am in love with the past youth of a woman. <br \/>\nShe has eyes called the Persian gulf,<br \/>\nAnd this has nothing to do with this room,<br \/>\nFor example,<br \/>\nAs soon as she wants to grab me from this bed,<br \/>\nI\u2019ll be a canoe that travels on your eyes,<br \/>\nAnd within this room that is far from the world, <br \/>\nI am a seaman,<br \/>\nWho pirates tears. <br \/>\nDo you want me to bring you the eyes of the moon?<\/p>\n<p>\ntraslated from Farsi by: Mahnaz Badihian<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Spirit Flock by flock they go, Candles in their hands, With begrudged hands that strike and, With no time to spare. Theses butterflies that come dancing, From the darkness of the sky, To the fine blue earth.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":546,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[45],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/73"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/546"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=73"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/73\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=73"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=73"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=73"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}