Busy in March

(Translated by: Abdulwaḥid Lu’lu’a)


Roses sleep or wake,
And smiles, in the distance,
A fresh night or break of a morn.
The same is this or that,
My love, you are busy.
In vain are my chords,
Praying, and my chants.
On your called desk you bend without dreams,
Your soul is stolen by figures.
At your locked door the chants recoil.
I may laugh, or are weep, and wake at night, or sleep
The same it is, you are busy
With your papers, and love on your desk is slain.
O, down with papers and pens!
*******

Fresh March and I, behind the door,
Spray your serious forehead with fragrance,
We wave in the inkpot some of the waves’ desires,
And save the desk wood from the cold and snow.
We present you with dew and fragrance in a cup to drink.
My dear, open the doors.
The affectionate morn, and I came knocking on the window.
We crossed the rocks and thorns,
And valleys of sighs and pains.
We came here to see you,
My love, so open the window.
*******

Time passes and doors refuse us.
Oh, my tired, busy love,
Open, we are here.
The sun and myself
Came bearing the river tan,
With cups of perfume
A bunch of stars and light,
My love, open the doors,
We are here:
You, March, our love joy, and myself.



(Collected Works, II, 1971, pp. 474-476; 1963)