Being (silent/dim) at evenings
from the this mountaintop
Waiting for the singing image of the burning orb
Turned to the pathway of memories.
In a handful of wheat
There's another hand
A trenchant hilt
-like the diving of a hawk into the cloud-
Yeah
This is the way humans are.
Some people
Plant their seeds
in the rivers and the seas
as it doesn't grow,
Getting futilely
fatigued
in this fighting
against the rivers and the seas for years.
Some others, some sullen ones
standing in the rivers and seas
with the seeds in their hands,
They don't plant
The expect of the growth in that
wet trembling fingers turns to an *****.
They have been futilely
fatigued
in a fight against those they see as
spellbound foolish ones for years.
In me but there exists
a clever
depressed taciturn
scientist, knows all that can not
be done as the stone doesn't
know all that can be done.
This way
I know that all the rivers
in the world are fierce and spiteful
They even take away the corpus
of the plants and old trees.
Don't be deceived by their purl.
Giving them wheat ?!!
No
No wheat grains in trembling hands.
A man a knowing one should go
to the alp
Giving the wheat to the cloud.
The cloud
is the calm heavenly water
And it should know about the
melody of the sun
A trenchant sword is ready to harvest.
It comes back home, proud of
knowing with the glory of an
armful wheat
For the children's hand not being
empty of wheat.
The cloud of the grain field is
now a little far away from me
It may be arrived near my home
Surely my wife's arms would
smell as new baked bread when I
come back home.

Written by
Keikavoos Yakideh