They sniff your breath
in case you have uttered
a word of love;
they sniff at your heart
These are the strange times,
my precious.
And love itself is whipped and hanged
at a public crossroads:
better to hide your love
in a cellar.
In the twists and turns of
this cold dead-end
they keep their fires alight
fuelled with songs
and poems;
don't try to think:
these are strange times,
my precious.
He who knocks on the door
at nightfall,
has come to destroy your light:
Better to hide your light
in a cellar.
Look, there are the butchers
guarding the roads,
their axes dipped in blood:
these are strange times,
my precious.
Smiles are sealed onto lips,
songs are stuffed into
gaping mouths:
better to hide your joy
in a cellar.
Canaries are barbecued
of wood-fires of lily
and jasmine:
these are strange times,
my precious.
Lucifer, crazed with victory,
feasts on the fruits of our
mourning:
better to hide your God,
in a cellar.
"Ahmad Shāmlou; (December 12, 1925 — July 24, 2000) was a Persian poet, writer, and journalist"
