Behrouz Kia Born in 1937 in a little village looking over the Caspian Sea, from a father who was a judge, and a mother who was from the village. I learned from the nature, from the first day I went to school, riding through the woods. Learned the alphabet, and how important a tree can be. We learned that nature can
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Behrouz KiaBorn in 1937 in a little village
looking over the Caspian Sea,
from a father who was a judge,
and a mother
who was from the village.
I learned from the nature,
from the first day I went to school,
riding through the woods.
Learned the alphabet,
and how important a tree can be.
We learned that nature can give us more
than we can ever give the nature.
22
FOOTPRINTS OF DREAM
I painted my dream,
on the spread of the night.
Sun washed it away.
I draw my day dream,
on the sand, by the sea.
Waves erased it.
Night is heavy.
How can I,
in the vast of this heavy darkness,
pour all of my warm dream ?
Night is moving away
from the soft of the sand.
And yet,
I am laying next to my dream.
“ Give my painting back “,
I said to the night,
“ before you go away ,
and I shall give you my dream.”
Sun is sparkling light on the grass.
The wet steams away.
With it, it takes my dream.
And,
I don’t take my painting back.
33
A SONG FOR A DANCE
Her thought
thick as a drop of spring rain,
bright as a candle,
and perhaps
as tall as a drop of dew.
But not as thick as petals,
softer, more tender.
In her stories she tells
to the doors and windows,
the birds talk of the wind and clouds.
She smells of forest,
sea , mountain,
and that little pine tree.
44
BLUE, GREY
I walk in vain,
with thousands of nothing
in my sight,
to where all the road connect.
I look at the sky,
it cuts to two pieces.
Half stayed gray,
I looked at,
and half turned blue,
you looked at it.
55
FLIGHT BY SUNSET At sunset,somewhere between the silenceand emptiness,the road, slowly moving,listening to the cry of the river.Shadows dancing by the northern breeze.Sun takes the last lookat the valley.My shadow is holding handwith your,but darkness takes them away.Only river playful, joyful,keeps on singing.Smell of distressfalls on the dry leaves.I pick the first starfrom the dark of the sky,and hang itfrom the ear of a wild rose.The road dancing,follow the riverto where the sun is gone.Shadowless, mad, drunk,hand in hand with the road,I am being taken to the seat of the sunset.Forest stops breathing for a while,to let the lost birdfind its path.
66
THE SONG OF THE FROG IN FOG
Sky gray,the lake gray,no lilies on water.The birds have long gone.Only frogs are the occupiers now.On the black leaf, sits no lily.The song of the frog,breaks in the fog.No reflection of the face on water,The fog covers the moonlight,and the gray water, the beauty of the face.Rose petals gone,riding on the back of the wind.And,no hand picks another rose.No face washingits reflection in water.The song of the fishermenmigrated with winter.The boats are sitting on mud,the nets a tangled pile.The oars broken, the fish gone .Water gray,heart gray,no song in the air.The song of the frog echoes in the fog.
77
BLOSSOMING
I look at the bulk of emptiness
of the street.
No light,
no trees,
no green,
not even the sound of
“ good morning “.
It looks as
silence has found a eternal seat.
On day,
may be,
the spring shall revolt,
and
the green shall get
the seat back.
88
THE OTHER SHORE
We called each other
from the two shores
of the separation.
Our hands flying,
our souls in deep weariness.
Birds flew from our lips,
Crossing each other’s line.
Your words rained on my dream,
I could see you setting
on the horizon.
99
THE BLUE OF THE MORNING To think of you
has become a habit,
in these long moments
of loneliness.
I think
we are all chained to the time.
The magic of your being
has a charm
that has metamorphosed me.
Your kindness is running
in my feelings.
To think of you
is a walk on the streets
of dream
to spring.
The chair is still empty.
When there was
the desert storm in me,
your smile was
sky full of stars.
thought can only walk to you.
1010
NIGHT SINGER
His voice,
from beyond the mountain
heals the night-raving.
Sing,
o night singer .
Your voice brings to dance the Southern Star.
Sing,
o night singer,
The old tree sends its leaves flying to you.
Mountain,
the old and tired mountain
answers your voice back.
River, bring the songs.
Sing,
o night singer.
Nothing is left by the road,
except your voice.
1111
DON’T BURY ME IN MY TOWN
The town talks
and the little sparrow
says “ no “ .
Spring is waiting in loneliness
till the fall
bring the days of death
to roses and the lilies.
Tik Tak, Tik Tak,
the clock sings.
The song travels
from street to street,
pausing at each door.
Your dream flies over the town
dropping only the dry rose
on the black tree.
The tree is in mourning,
the clouds are dead.
There are stones hanging
from every branch.
The soil is frozen,
you can not bury the deads.
1212
THOUGHTS LIKE RAINor
RAIN LIKE THOUGHT
Somewhere from past,
a smile is left,
carved on a rock.
It still runs
on the corner of one’s lips.
--------
How can I talk about
the history of this love,
without sorrows.
Without looking at the path,
one can see no path.
Only hope and waiting
lives still on that far away
path.
--------
I thought I buried my poem,
when I buried you memory.
But my poem
out of earth
still flying
on my hand.
It looksI have not passed my thoughtthat was with you.And the cross section of life and death