Those days are gone,1962

Those days are gone;
Those full and fine days,
are gone.

Those days of flight-
in the bright heart of blue skies,
Those days of swing, swim, sway
in the expanding river of greening pines,
Those days so full, so free, so fine-
are gone, gone.


In the snowy, dreary days,
from window, in my quiet side,
I was watching the white riot in the yard.

And there,
my soft, silken snow-
was falling down, slow, slow.
on the old ladder, on the frail rope,
on the naked branches of the trees.

And I was thinking of tomorrow.
Oh, tomorrow …

It would begin with the urging call-
and the intrusive noise- of my mother’s shoes
emerging in the cold sensation of daylight,
fading behind the dance of colorful sights-
taking away the remnants of my night.


Those days of feast, song and dance-
Those days of endless laughter, daze and romance.

Those days of daydream, swing and joy-
Those nights of play, tale and toy,
Those days are gone.

Those days,
bazaar was confined in hundreds of scents,
the solid odor of coffee, in the sordid vapor of opium.

was expanding, escalating and inflating under heavy steps,
And it would finally sleep- inside the empty eyes-
of clockwork dolls.

Bazaar was my mom!
Bazaar was my mom who was running so fast,
to the stage of vibrating, shaking sights
returning with the baskets filled-
with color and light.

Bazaar was that rain, falling, flowing down-
in my mind, my mind.

Those days are gone,
Those full and fine days
are gone, alas gone.

Translation: Maryam Dilmagani, September 2006, Montreal


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