Wounds

I have been wounded so often and so painfully,
dragging my way home at the merest crawl,
impaled not only by malicious tongues-
one can be wounded even by a petal.

And I myself have wounded-quite unwittingly-
with casual tenderness while passing by,
and later someone felt the pain,
it was like walking barefoot over the ice.

So why do I step upon the ruins
of those most near and dear to me,
I, who can be so simply and so sharply wounded
and can wound others with such deadly ease?

Vincent Van Gogh – Starry Night (1889)

Notice how Van Gogh’s ”painterly” use of dark and light blue brush strokes creates a swirling dramatic atmosphere, emphasizing the yellow stars and moon to create an active and intense night sky. Van Gogh frequently contrasted complementary colors to achieve this effect.

unmistakable

Any time, anywhere, any place
you could be anyone today
maybe I will recognize you on a crowded street
maybe you'll take me by surprise
will you be the one I had in mind


There! come a day
when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
how can I be sure
that you're the one I'm waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

people say watch your life through a glass
desperately waiting on a chance
I know you're out there
holding in holding out for me
how do I to know the time is right
what if you're here and I'm just blind


there! come a day

when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
baby how can I be sure
that you're the one am waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

how can I know a song I never heard
how will I know your voice when you haven't said a word
how do I know how this will end
before we began ( before we began )


there come a day
when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
how can I be sure
that you're the one am waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

مهتاب Moonlight

بی تو، مهتاب شبی باز از آن کوچه گذشتم

همه تن، چشم شدم خیره به دنبال تو گشتم،

شوق دیدار تو لبریز شد از جام وجودم،

شدم آن عاشق دیوانه که بودم.

در نهانخانه ی جانم یادِ تو درخشید

باغِ صد خاطره خندید

عطرصد خاطره پیچید



یادم آمد که شبی با هم از آن کوچه گذشتیم

پرگشودیم و در آن خلوت دل خواسته گشتیم

ساعتی برلب آن جوی نشستیم



تو همه رازِ جهان ریخته در جشمِ سیاهت

من همه محو تماشای نگاهت



آسمان صاف و شب آرام

بخت خندان و زمان رام

خوشه ی ماه فروریخته در آب

شاخه ها دست برآورده به مهتاب

شب و صحرا و گل و سنگ

همه دل داده به آواز شباهنگ...



یادم آید : تو به من گفتی :

«از این عشق حذر کن!

لحظه ای چند بر این آب نظر کن،

آب، آیینه ی عشق گذران است

تو که امروز نگاهت به نگاهی نگران است

باش فردا، که دلت با دگران است.

تا فراموش کنی، چندی از این شهر سفر کن!»



با تو گفتم:

«حذر عشق ؟ حذر از عشق ؟ - ندانم

سفر از پیش تو ؟ هرگز نتوانم ،

نتوانم !



روز اول که دل من به تمنای تو پر زد،

چون کبوتر، لبِ بامِ تو نشستم ،

تو به من سنگ زدی ، من نه رمیدم، نه گسستم»



باز گفتم که : « تو صیادی و من آهوی دشتم

تا به دام تو درافتم ، همه جا گشتم و گشتم

حذر از عشق ندانم

سفر از پیش تو هرگز نتوانم، نتوانم....!



اشکی از شاخه فروریخت

مرغ شب ، ناله ی تلخی زد و بگریخت!



اشک در چشم تو لرزید،

ماه بر عشق ِ تو خندید!

یادم آید که دگر از تو جوابی نشنیدم.

پای در دامن اندوه کشیدم،

نگسستم ، نرمیدم،





رفت در ظلمت غم، آن شب و شبهای دگر هم،

نگرفتی دگر از عاشق آزرده خبر هم ،

نکنی دیگر از آن کوچه گذر هم !



بی تو ، اما به چه حالی من از آن کوچه گذشتم!

Ballad of the Moon

The moon came in to the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.

The little boy stares at her, stares.
Stares hard!

In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows nude and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.

with a worry voice,
child said:
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies arrives,
they will make "necklaces and rings"
from your white heart.

"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they will find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight.
she replied;

"Moon, moon, moon, run!
"I can hear their horses coming"

Let it be, my little one,
don't step on my starched whiteness,
you are rouining it!!!

Drumming on the plain,
closer comes the the horsemen,

The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.

Through the olive grove
there! they come "the gypsies of dream and bronze"
with heads held high,
their eyelashes falls half asleep.

Oh, how wram and phonetic the night owl calls,
calls from its tree!

The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child on his hands.

They are crying in the forge,
Gypsies are crying and shouting.

The air, the air is veiwing all over, views all.
The air is at the viewing.

Fedrico Garcia Lorca
Translated by: J.D.
1/6/08