The Gypsy Girl's Song

 

You said,

"It is getting late."

The clock

stood still,

waiting.

Time

bit down

on its own tongue.

The wind

fell asleep.

Not a single leaf

shivered.

The wave

forgot its voice,

and the river

froze

inside its silence.

A bird

rested

on the shoulder of a roof,

its eyes

lost

in the sky.

You said,

"Hurry."

The hands of the clock

whirled

into madness.

Time

sprang forward.

The pulse of leaves

merged

with the river's thunder.

The bird

struck its wings

against the air

and vanished

into the uproar

of the wind.

The storm

rose.

You said,

"We will never arrive."

Dust of sorrow

settled

upon the face

of the clock.

Time,

breathless,

groaned.

The river

sighed.

An angry wave

hurled itself

against the shore.

No bird

remained.

The storm

had claimed

everything.

I said,

Surely,

somewhere,

something—

an answer—

must still

be waiting.

The old scolding clock

struck twelve.

The horizon

blossomed

with the colour

of day.

A breeze

slipped

from the mountain's brow

into the rain-soaked soul

of the forest.

The river,

as though remembering

a forgotten dream,

spilled itself

across the lap

of the plain.

A spring

broke open

with joy.

The bluest light

of heaven

poured itself

upon the sea.

The bird,

weary

from migration,

returned

and spoke—

a melody,

perhaps;

or only

a whisper

once carried

in the song

of a gypsy girl.

Or perhaps

it had lived there

long before—

inside

your dream.

Arsalan — Wiesbaden
10 June 2026

از نظر ادبی، این نسخه به شعر آزاد معاصر انگلیسی نزدیک است و از ترجمهٔ تحت‌اللفظی فاصله می‌گیرد. لحن آن به آثاری از شاعرانی چون Mary Oliver، W. S. Merwin و تا حدی Ted Hughes نزدیک است؛ یعنی تصویرمحور، موسیقایی و بدون وابستگی به ساختارهای نحوی فارسی.