3 Poems of Nima Yushij

The Soldier"s Family

The candle burns, beside the curtain set,

So far this woman hasn"t slept yet;

Over the cradle she leans (alone),

O wretched one, O wretched one.

A few rags form the curtain of the spouse

To protect the house.

For two days no food she has tasted,

With two kids, she hasn"t rested;

One is ten, she is sleeping,

The other is awake and wailing.

She cries for her mother"s milk which is small

This is another woe, (it is dismal).

The neighbor"s child wears well,

She has her sports and eats well.

What difference is between these (I"m grieved)

What the other owns this one is bereaved.

A soldier"s child dressed in rags (and gall)

Why must she live at all?

All she sees is but asperity

What she reads, breathes adversity;

Her back is bending, with all the load,

Her eyesight is dim in this abode;

Thus she labors like a man;

Thus she toils, the woman.

The Song of the Jungle

I wonder what tumult is racking the silence of this jungle

That breeds a hundred songs of joy and sorrow in the heart;

I wonder what magic lies within the depth of jungles

That helps the jungle witch to ensnare man.

When the autumn morning sun rises,

The jungle gets so brightly lit

That it occurs to you

That each golden leaf is a candle flame

Burning in the jungle"s heart.

Which knight must bring the happy tidings of victory

For whom the jungle is adorned with lights?

When the incense-spreading gale scatters

A thousand gold coins over the jungle,

I wonder what the silent butterfly thinks

And by what melody the jungle love-bird

Sings the luring song of dropping leaves?

I like the jungle,

Because like the souls of us folks

It is full of mysterious and colorful lights and shadows.

I like the jungle,

Because a lively jungle is beautiful

And even at death it refreshes the world.

May the mirth breading jungle live long!

The Cold Stove

Surviving from very distant nights

At a silent path towards the jungle

A little stove made of stone,

Contains some cold ashes.

Like my melancholy thoughts buried in the dust,

Bearing sketches of everything,

A tale whose fruit is but pain.

My sweet day that agreed with me

Has become an incongruous sketch,

It has grown cold and turned into stone

And the autumnal breathe of my life, turns yellow the spring"s face.

Still surviving from very distant nights

At a silent path towards the jungle

A little stove made of stone,

Contains some cold ashes.

Other Links:

Rubayyat of Omar Khayyam Nishapuri (part 4)

Rubayyat of Omar Khayyam Nishapuri (part 5)

Rubayyat of Omar Khayyam Nishapuri (part 6)