Forugh Farrokhzad

1934-1967

Thank you for attending the world premiere of

‎همه هستی من آیه تاریکیست | All my being is a dark verse.

It means a lot to us to have you here. This work is inspired by the work of beloved Persian poet, Forugh Farrokhzad.

We know that for many non-Persian attendees, this will be the first time you are hearing of Forugh. We created this page to introduce you to her, beginning with the English translation of the poem which inspired our title. We encourage you to read more about Forugh and her brief yet exceptional life here:

Forugh Bio and Story

We are so grateful to Forugh for gifting us and everyone with her life’s work. Forugh awakens the courage in us to be courageous. Her rigorous, rebellious nature has inspired many generations of artists. Her writing, although being specific, is also timeless, transcends across cultures, and is full of humanity and love that goes beyond borders and ideologies. She longed for a world that could address and heal humanity's pain.

As artists we are drawn to Forugh and her work for these unapologetic tendencies and yet her humble nature of being, writing and expressing on the page. We strive for the same things in dance and choreography and long for a world that can address and heal its pain.

~ Alexis and Arash

Reborn 

by Forugh Farrokhzad

Translated from original Farsi by Sholeh Wolpé

All my being is a dark verse

that repeats you to the dawn

of unfading flowering and growth.

I conjured you in my poem with a sigh

and grafted you to water, fire, and trees.


Perhaps life is a long avenue

a woman with a basket crosses every day;

perhaps life is a rope

with which a man hangs himself from a tree,

or is a child returning home from school.

Maybe life is the act of lighting a cigarette

in the listless pause between lovemaking,

or the vacant glance of a passerby who tips

his hat and says, Good morning!

with a meaningless smile. 

Perhaps life is a choked moment where my gaze

annihilates itself inside in the pupils of your eyes-

I will mingle that sensation with my grasp

of the moon and comprehension of darkness.

In a room the size of loneliness,

my heart’s the size of love.

It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness:

the beauty of the flowers’ wilting in a vase,

the sapling you planted in our garden,

and the canaries’ song – the size of a window. 


Alas, this is my lot.

This is my lot.

My lot is a sky that can be shut out

by the mere hanging of a curtain.

My lot is descending a lonely staircase

to something rotting and falling apart in its exile.

My lot is a gloomy stroll into a grove of memories,

and dying from longing for a voice

that says: I love your hands. 

I plant my hands in the garden soil-

I will sprout,

I know, I know, I know.

And in the hollow of my ink-stained palms

swallows will make their nest. 

I will adorn my ears with twin-cherry sprigs,

wear dahlia petals on my nails.

There is an alley where boys who once loved me still stand

with the same tousled hair, thin necks, and scrawny legs,

contemplating the innocent smiles of a young girl

swept away one night by the wind.

There is an alley my heart has stolen

from my childhood turf.

A body traveling along the line of time

impregnates time’s barren cord,

and returns from the mirror’s feast

intimate with its own image.

This is how one dies, and another remains.

No seeker will ever find pearls from a stream 

that pours into a ditch.

I know a sad little fairy who lives in the sea

and plays the wooden flute of her heart tenderly,

tenderly…

A sad small fairy who dies at night with a kiss

and is reborn with a kiss at dawn.

تولدی دیگر

همه ي هستي من آيه ي تاريکيست
که ترا در خود تکرار کنان
به سحرگاه شکفتن ها و رستن هاي ابدي خواهد برد
من در اين آيه ترا آه کشيدم ، آه
من در اين آيه تو را
به درخت و آب و آتش پيوند زدم

زندگي شايد
يک خيابان درازست که هر روز زني با زنبيلي از آن مي گذرد
زندگي شايد
ريسمانيست که مردي با آن خود را از شاخه مي آويزد
زندگي شايد طفليست که از مدرسه بر مي گردد
زندگي شايد افروختن سيگاري باشد ، در فاصله ي رخوتناک دو
همآغوشي
يا عبور گيج رهگذري باشد
که کلاه از سر بر ميدارد
و به يک رهگذر ديگر با لبخندي بي معني مي گويد ” صبح بخير ”
زندگي شايد آن لحظه مسدوديست
که نگاه من ، در ني ني چشمان تو خود را ويران ميسازد
و در اين حسي است
که من آن را با ادراک ماه و با دريافت ظلمت خواهم آميخت
در اتاقي که به اندازه ي يک تنهاييست
دل من
که به اندازه ي يک عشقست
به بهانه هاي ساده ي خوشبختي خود مي نگرد
به زوال زيباي گل ها در گلدان
به نهالي که تو در باغچه ي خانه مان کاشته اي
و به آواز قناري ها
که به اندازه ي يک پنجره ميخوانند

…آه
سهم من اينست
سهم من اينست
سهم من ،
آسمانيست که آويختن پرده اي آنرا از من ميگيرد
سهم من پايين رفتن از يک پله متروک است
و به چيزي در پوسيدگي و غربت واصل گشتن
سهم من گردش حزن آلودي در باغ خاطره هاست
و در اندوه صدايي جان دادن که به من مي گويد
«دستهايت را
دوست می دارم»
دستهايم را در باغچه مي کارم
سبز خواهم شد ، ميدانم،ميدانم ، ميدانم
و پرستوها در گودي انگشتان جوهريم
تخم خواهند گذاشت
گوشواري به دو گوشم ميآويزم
از دو گيلاس سرخ همزاد
و به ناخن هايم برگ گل کوکب مي چسبانم
کوچه اي هست که در آنجا
پسراني که به من عاشق بودند ، هنوز
با همان موهاي درهم و گردنهاي باريک و پاهاي لاغر
به تبسم هاي معصوم دخترکي مي انديشند که يک شب او را
باد با خود برد
کوچه اي هست که قلب من آن را
از محله هاي کودکيم دزديده است 
سفر حجمي در خط زمان
و به حجمي خط خشک زمان را آبستن کردن
حجمي از تصويري آگاه
که ز مهماني يک آينه بر ميگردد
و بدينسانست
که کسي ميميرد
و کسي ميماند
هيچ صيادي در جوي حقيري که به گودالي ميريزد ، مرواريدي
صيد نخواهد کرد .
من پري کوچک غمگيني را
ميشناسم که در اقيانوسي مسکن دارد
و دلش را در يک ني لبک چوبين
مينوازد آرام ، آرام
پري کوچک غمگيني
که شب از يک بوسه ميميرد
و سحرگاه از يک بوسه به دنيا خواهد آمد