Untitled — “And That Night I Wrote”

Translated from the Persian original.

And that night I wrote that I wished I had nothing, and had a child to live for, a child to give my heart to;

and I wrote further that if it weren't for all these shadows and the house and the fear, I couldn't bear a moment in this temple of idols.

From the day I managed to kill in myself the meaning of being a servant, and the meaning of having a God as well, I had been dead without knowing it.

A dead man carrying nothing but a stinking corpse, until at last he finds a cradle of earth to rest in.

I had become so ugly that I had to give up on every beautiful thing; even on having you, who were my most beautiful poem; and with every day that passed I saw clearly that my tears no longer calmed me, because there was no longer a lap to shed them on.

And this was my soul-wrenching torment, the same mirage I had seen behind being superior and thinking myself superior, and had hurried towards.

I had learned from you how to reach my wishes quickly, and it was you who taught me how easily to let go of my life. Because arriving early brought understanding early, and understanding early brought giving up early. (I tried hard and kept going, but in the end nothing changed.)

In the morning, when the sun shines, the world will be full of shadows, and surrendering to them will put us at ease again; and with all this bitterness, how beautiful it is to be together, and how beautiful it was.