Four Parts of One Elegy
In Memory of Ezzat Tabaian

First Part

They are calling me,
They are calling me
From behind the heavy mist of January
At the bloody foot of this mountain.
They are calling me:
“Get all your belongings!”
I get up, and my cellmates sing:
“Blossoms are dancing
In the spring wind.
The meadow is all green
And red as pomegranate flower.”*

I hear your voices, your voices
Oh, nocturnal home-builders!
When you grew that night
From within the earth.
You were carrying lanterns,
And, instead of marking-lime,
Buckets of salt in hand.
You parceled out equally for all
From this vast common land
So that you could get rid of tenancy
And feel the same joy
That a cave man had in his cave
But a tenant has only in his dream.

Oh, the feeling of having roots!
Everything started with you
When the houses in shanty towns
“Outside-the-zone”** began to grow
In the worried eyes of bricklayers
The muddy hands of teenaged girls
And the bloody bodies of children
Under the wheels of bulldozers.

It was growing before our eyes
It was growing inside our hearts
And everybody wanted his share of life:
Laying his head on his pillow
Without having nightmares
About a late rent payment
Or a policeman’s tea-money.

I hear your voices, your voices
From behind the heavy mist of January
At the bloody foot of this mountain.
They are calling me:
“Get all your belongings!”
I get up, and my cellmates sing:
“Blossoms are dancing
In the spring wind.
The meadow is all green
And red as pomegranate flower.”

Second Part

“I have no special bequest”***
I only want to write
What we wanted to say
Alongside the nocturnal word-makers
In the nights of poetry readings****
At the rainy Goethe Garden****
With the hubbub of riot police
From behind the walls.

In the nights of Goethe readings
We were searching for our lost voices
In the great human chorus
But they denied us.
So we gathered on the streets
And raised our voices
With our word-makers:
“We want to be birds
And sing in freedom.”

This is my special bequest.

Third Part

Ah! What is this chill
From the Evin hills
Whipping my temples and chest?
Is it not the chill of that winter?:
From the warm fire of the workers
Who shut down the oil pipelines
To the cold fire of machine guns
Opened shamelessly toward the crowd,
From the collapse of the old order
To the free fall of the new,
From the threatening gaze of statues
Toppled in city squares
To the frowning faces of a man
Painted on the city walls,
From a new order to fire
To the fire of the new disorder.

Oh, my barren hope
Speak to me
Was it not at the place of this slaughter
That we opened the gates of this prison?
Startled at the sight of colanders
Half-filled with steaming rice,
Which the old prison guards had rinsed
For their own funeral supper
And the new prison guards cooked
For their own wedding,
And we, the liberators,
Became the beheaded hens of their pilafs.
We opened the gates of this prison
To shut it down forever,
But the men with turbans
Only wanted to add a mourning hall
Where they can beat their chests for Hossein.
Ah! What a sad farce it was.
Now it ends
Not with a smile
But with a bullet.

Fourth Part

My eyes can no longer see you
Ah, you infinite love of a nation
Ah, you infinite love of a lover
To whom can I speak of this courage?
The earth in the Infidel cemetery
Has already devoured you
Before I could stand upright
With my hundred-yard height
And my gigantic wide open arms
To snatch your beloved body.
Alas, nothing is left for me
But to wipe my tears.

We, the home-builders and word-makers
Did not  say, did not say
What we wanted to say
And as a result
The scribes of Allah’s office
Dropped the ink of their quills
In our mouths.
We wanted the right of housing
But they wrote for us:
“Occupying the palace of the tyrant!”
We wanted the right of free speech
But they wrote for us:
“Establishment of Islamic censorship!”
 We wanted to govern ourselves
But they wrote for us:
“Nationalization of death.”
Curse on all duplicates!
They never match the originals.

Now in this blood-drenched land
What can I tell you
My silver-winged falcon?
You are gone
And no whispering water jar*****
Will open your beautiful eyes.
Now, four years, four years  have passed
Since in departing my life
I became quartered
And in welcoming your death
You became a quatrain.
Ah, my gentle love
Love of a revolution
Are you gone forever?
Let me find a jar of water
In the shade of your memory
Which hovers with open wings
Over the insurmountable summit of your life.
My soul has become parched
Along with your fragile hollowed bones
And my eyes cannot see
But this white wall of salt.

January 7, 1986
Majid Naficy

*- This is from a popular song performed by the late Armenian-Iranian singer,  Vigen. It was sung by Ezzat’s cellmates in the Women’s Ward in Evin Prison as she was called for execution.
**- In summer of 1977, people protesting the zoning regulations stoned the government buildings and began to build their houses without permits at night on the periphery of Tehran. It marked the beginning of the February 79 Revolution.
***- A line from Ezzat’s Will, written before she was taken to the execution field on January 7, 1982.
****- In the autumn of 1977, the Iranian Writers Association organized ten nights of poetry in the Goethe Institute  where thousands of intellectuals protested against censorship.
*****- In Iran it is customary to pour water on graves as a blessing.

چارپاره ي يك سوگ
به ياد عزت طبائيان

پاره ي يكم 

صدايم مي كنند 

صدايم مي كنند 

از پشت مِه سنگين ديماه 

در پايه ي خونين اين كوهستان 

صدايم مي كنند: 

"با همه ي وسايل!" 

برمي خيزم و همبندان مي خوانند: 

"شكوفه مي رقصد 

از باد بهاري 

شده سرتاسر دشت 

سبز و گُلناري."* 

صدايتان را مي شنوم 

اي خانه سازانِ شبانه! 

در شامگاهي كه از دلِ زمين روئيديد 

هر يك فانوسي در دست 

و بجاي ي گچ، سطلي از نمك 

و هر يك را به تساوي مي بريديد 

ازين پارچه ي گسترده ي خاك 

آنقدر كه بتوان 

ازين چارديواري اجاري بيرون جهيد 

و همان احساسي را كرد 

كه غارنشين در غارش دارد 

و اجاره نشين در خوابش. 

همه چيز با تو آغاز شد 

اي احساسِ ريشه دار شدنِ انسان! 

با رويشِ شبانه ي خانه ها 

در "خارج از محدوده" 

با چشمهاي نگرانِ خشت چينان 

و دستهاي گِل آلود دختران 

و هيكل خونين كودكان 

زير چرخهاي بولدوزر. 

چيزي سبز مي شد بر زمين 

و چيزي سبز مي شد در دل انسانها 

و هر كس سهم خودش را مي خواست 

از زندگي: 

نهادن سر به بالين 

و خوابهاي آشفته نديدن 

از خق اجاره ي مالك 

تا پول چاي ي پاسبان. 

مي شنوم، مي شنوم صدايتان را 

از پشت مِه سنگين ديماه 

در پايه ي خونين اين كوهستان 

صدايم مي كنند: 

"با همه ي وسايل!" 

برمي خيزم و همبندان مي خوانند: 

"شكوفه مي رقصد 

از باد بهاري 

شده سرتاسر دشت 

سبز و گُلناري."

پاره ي دوم 

"وصيتي خاص ندارم كه بنويسم"** 

تنها مي خواهم بگويم 

آنچه را كه مي خواستيم بگوييم 

در شبهاي ي شعرِ باغ 

همراه با واژه كارانِ شبانه 

زيرِ ريزش باران 

و هياهوي گاردي ها 

از پسِ ديوار. 

در شبهاي شعرِ گوته 

ما نواي ي گمشده ي خود را مي جستيم 

در همسُرايي ي بزرگ انسان 

و از ما دريغ مي كردند. 

در خيابانهاي شهر گرد مي آمديم 

و همنوا با واژه كاران 

فرياد مي زديم: 

"ما مي خواهيم پرنده باشيم 

و با آزادي بخوانيم." 

اين وصيت خاص من است. 

پاره ي سوم 

آه اين سوز چيست 

كه از سوي ي تپه هاي ي اوين 

تسمه مي كِشد 

بر شقيقه ها و سينه ي من؟ 

آيا اين سوز زمستان آن سال نيست 

از گرماي ي آتشي كه شيرهاي نفت را بستند 

تا سردي ي آتشي كه بر شيرهاي شهر گشودند، 

از سرنگوني ي كهنه 

تا نگونساري ي نو، 

از زهرچشمِ تنديسي كه در ميدانها فرو افتاد 

تا ترشرويي ي چهره اي كه بر ديوارها نقش بست، 

از فرمانِ جديد آتش 

تا آتشِ نوين نافرماني؟ 

اي اميدِ بي حاصل من بگو 

آيا بر سكوي ي همين قتلگاه نبود 

كه ما درهاي اين زندان را گشوديم 

با چشماني ي خيره 

به آبكش هاي ي نيمه پُرِ برنج 

كه زندانبانان كهنه 

براي شام عزاي ي خود پالوده بودند 

و زندانبانان تازه 

براي پلوي ي عروسي خود پختند 

و ما حصارگشايان 

مرغان سر بريده ي آنها شديم؟ 

با گشودن زندان 

ما بسته شدنِ هميشگي آن را مي خواستيم 

و دستاربندان 

گشودنِ حسينه اي در آن. 

آه اين چه شوخي ي تلخي بود 

كه اينك پايان مي گيرد 

نه با لبخندي 

كه با گلوله اي.

پاره ي چهارم 

چشمانم ديگر نمي تواند ترا ببيند 

آه اي عشقِ بي پايان يك ملت! 

آه اي عشقِ بي پايان يك عاشق! 

با كه از اين همه جسارت سخن بگويم 

كه اين خاك 

در "گورستان خاوران" 

پيش از اينكه من با قامتِ هفتاد گزي ي خود 

و دستهاي ي غول آساي ي فراخ گشوده ام 

راست شوم 

تا پيكر نازنينَت را بربايم 

آوَخ، آوَخ 

تو را بلعيده است 

و مرا بجز سايشِ چشمي 

نصيبي نمانده است. 

ما خانه سازان و واژه كاران نگفتيم، نگفتيم 

آنچه را كه مي خواستيم بگوييم 

و لاجرم كاتبان دفترِ الله 

مُركبِ كِلك خود را 

در دهان ما چكاندند. 

ما مي خواستيم، مي خواستيم 

حق داشتن خانه اي را 

و آنها برايمان نوشتند: 

اشغالِ كاخِ طاغوت! 

ما مي خواستيم، مي خواستيم 

حق آزادي سخن را 

و آنها برايمان نوشتند: 

ايجادِ سانسورِ ياقوت! 

ما مي خواستيم، مي خواستيم 

حق اداره ي زندگي خود را 

و آنها برايمان نوشتند: 

دولتي كردنِ تابوت! 

نفرين بر اين رونوشت 

كه هرگز برابرِ اصل نيست! 

اينك در اين خاك خونين 

با تو چه گويم 

اي شاهينِ سيمين بالِ من؟ 

تو رفته اي و ديگر 

ترنُمِ هيچ كوزه ي آبي 

چشمان زيبايت را نخواهد گشود. 

اكنون چار سال، چار سال مي گذرد 

از روزي كه من در بدرقه ي زندگيَم 

چارميخ شدم 

و تو در استقبال مرگت 

چارپاره شدي. 

آه اي مهرباني ي من 

مهرباني ي يك انقلاب 

آيا براي هميشه رفته اي؟ 

بگذار در سايه ي بالهاي ي هميشه گشوده ي خاطره ي تو 

بر فرازِ قله ي فتح ناپذيرِ زندگيَت 

براي خود كوزه ي آبي بيابم 

كه روحم از شكنندگي ي استخوانهاي ي پوك شده ات 

قاچ قاچ شده است 

و چشمانم براي هميشه 

جز سپيدي ي اين نمك 

چيزي نخواهد ديد. 

۷ ژانويه ۱۹۸۶ يا ۱۷ دي ۱۳۶۴ 

مجید نفیسی

*- از ترانه ي "شكوفه" ي ويگن. مي گويند كه هنگام بدرود با "عزت"، همبندان او در بند زنان اوين، اين ترانه را مي خوانده اند. 

**- سطري از "وصيتنامه"ي "عزت" مورخ ۱۷ دي ۱۳۶۰.