"The Wind-Up Doll" (Forough Farrokhzad)
Wednesday, September 19, 2012 at 4:24PM | Ana 
The Wind-Up Doll
More than this
Oh, yes,
One can remain silent longer than this
Throughout long hours
With a static stare
Much like the one of the dead
One can stay transfixed
In the smoke of a cigarette
The shape of a cup
A colorless flower on the carpet
An imaginary line on the wall
With dry fingers
One can draw the curtain aside
And see that
In the middle of the street
It is pouring rain
A child waits under an arch
Holding his colorful kites
A decrepit cart
Abandons an empty square with noisy haste
One can remain static
Next to a curtain, but blind, but deaf
One can call out with a severely false, severely unknown voice
“I do love”
In the prevailing arms of a man
One can be a beautiful and healthy female
With a body much like a table cloth made of leather
With two big, firm breasts
One can pollute the chastity of love
In the bed of a drunk, a maniac, a vagabond
One can belittle with ingenuity
Every grand riddle
One can dedicate oneself to just solving a crossword puzzle
One can be content with only the discovery of a meaningless answer
Yes, a meaningless answer, five or six letters
One can kneel down a whole life
With a lowered head at the edge of a cold altar
One can see God in an unknown grave
One can gain faith with a meaningless coin
Like an old pilgrim,
One can rot away in the cells of a mosque
One can have a consistent, precise result
Like zero in subtractions, sums and multiplications
One can suppose your eye in its socket
The colorless button of an old shoe
One can dry out like water in a pit
One can hide a precious moment with shame
Like a ridiculous instant black and white photograph
At the bottom of a trunk
One can hang in the empty, forgotten frame of a day
The portrait of an accused, a defeated, a crucified
One can cover the holes of a wall
With masks
One can connect with more meaningless pictures
One can be like wind-up dolls
See one’s world with two crystal eyes
With a body filled with straw
One can sleep for years
Between lace and sequins
In a broadcloth box
With every meaningless squeeze of a hand
One can call out in vain
“Oh, I am so very happy!”
Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967)
