It’s winter

Sándor Kányádi, when applying the image of the cycle of nature to history and thus making understandable and supportable with the metaphor of the approaching winter that massive and irreversible destruction which took place in the past century not only in Transylvania, but in the whole of Eastern Europe, either consciously or unconsciously followed the example of those – Transylvanian and European – Humanist predecessors who, perhaps also for their own comfort, explained and represented as inevitable with the cycles of human life and nature the rise and decline of nations. The winter as a metaphor for desperate historical situations has a long tradition and is still alive in the literature of various peoples.


In Hungarian its most famous example is undoubtedly the last two stanzas of Mihály Vörösmarty’s Foreword, written “in Baracska, in the late winter of 1850-51”, which expands to cosmic proportions the tragedy of the lost war of independence of 1848-49 and the subsequent bloody retaliation. The introductory verse of the penultimate stanza, “Now it’s winter and snow and silence and death” is a well-known topos for every Hungarian even if they do not remember anything else of the poem. The particular cruelty of the poem is that while the winter metaphor implicitly includes the possibility of a nearing spring, Vörösmarty explicitly states that the spring, even if it will come, will be just a lie.

(…) Most tél van és csend és hó és halál. A föld megőszült; Nem hajszálanként, mint a boldog ember, Egyszerre őszült az meg, mint az Isten, Ki megteremtvén a világot, embert, E félig istent, félig állatot, Elborzadott a zordon mű felett És bánatában ősz lett és öreg. Majd eljön a hajfodrász, a tavasz, S az agg föld tán vendéghajat veszen, Virágok bársonyába öltözik. Üvegszemén a fagy fölengedend, S illattal elkendőzött arcain Jókedvet és ifjuságot hazud: Kérdjétek akkor ezt a vén kacért, Hová tevé boldogtalan fiait?

(…) Now it’s winter and snow and silence and death. The earth has turned white. Not hair by hair like a happy man: it turned white at once, like God who, having created the world and man, this half-god and half-animal being was horrified over the grim work and turned white and old in his sorrow. Later will come the hairdresser, the spring, and the old earth will perhaps take a wig, she will dress in the velvet of flowers the ice will thaw on her glass eyes and on her cheek camouflaged with perfumes she will lie cheerfulness and youth. Ask then this aged coquette: where has she put her unhappy children?

For our generation, if on a different poetic level, but a similar role was played by a song written by János Bródy after the state of emergency introduced on 13 December 1981 in Poland and the suppression of the Solidarity movement. The song, though at that time was broadcasted on the radio, could be first published on LP only after the change of the regime, on the album “1977-1990” performed by Zorán Sztevanovity.

János Bródy – Zorán Sztevanovity: Do not wait for May. From the album 1977-1990 (1990)

Készülj a hosszú télre, kedvesem Mert hosszú lesz a tél, én azt hiszem A szíved melegét tedd el nekem Én majd a szemed fényét őrizem Szedd össze mindazt, ami megmarad Csak lassan égesd el a vágyakat Csavard a lángot lejjebb, kedvesem A tűzre szükség lesz még, úgy hiszem Ne várd a májust, hiszen közelít a tél Ne várd a májust, kedvesem Öltözz fel jól, ha az utcára kilépsz S ha fázol, bújj az ágyba velem Szelíd legyél, derűs és hallgatag És bölcs mosollyal tűrd, ha bántanak Legyél folyó, s ha támad majd a tél Páncélod lesz kemény és hófehér Készülj a hosszú télre, kedvesem Mert hosszú lesz a tél, én azt hiszem

Get ready for the long winter, my dear, because the winter will be long, I think Keep the warmth of your heart for me and I will guard the light of your eyes Pick up everything that remains and just slowly burn up the desire turn the flame down, my dear we will still need the fire, I think Do not wait for May, for winter is nearing do not wait for May, my dear dress up well when you step out to the street and if you’re cold, get down in the bed with me Be gentle, serene and silent and put up a wise smile if you’re hurt Become a river, and when winter attacks you’ll have an armor, hard and white Get ready for the long winter, my dear, because the winter will be long, I think

Kata remembers it like this: “I do not know whether János Bródy wrote it on that occasion or not, but to me this song is clearly linked to the suppression of Solidarność. We were then twenty years old, we were looking forward to life to open to us, to be in love and to be happy. We just wanted to go to a concert of Tamás Cseh when we learned the news. Life was all of a sudden darkened and locked away by Jaruzelski’s rise to power. We were sitting with my friend in my tiny room, the former servant’s hall of a former bourgeois apartment, and talking about that now everything is over, and that we have to expect a durable repression and the hardening of the dictatorship also in Hungary. Judit told that there was only a single slice left to us from life, and it was love. I heard this song immediately after that. And the coming years in fact were about this, that in the long winter people tried to obtain from each other the fullness and spaciousness of life, which necessarily led to tragedies. So this song still today evokes the servant’s hall, and still my stomach tightens just as thirty years ago, and I recall those people whom I saw getting spoiled in those years.”


One of the finest examples of the winter metaphor, however, comes from Iran, from one of the greatest Iranian poets of the 20th century, the creator of Persian free verse, Mehdi Akhavan Sales (1928-1990), of whom we have already translated some poems. His poem Zemestân ast – It’s winter is still so important in Iran that the greatest living musicians, the repeatedly quoted Mohammad Reza Shajarian (vocals) Hossein Alizadeh (tar), Kayhan Kalhor (kamanche) and the younger Shajarian (tombak) – the Masters of Persian Music – have set it to music and perform it, and this music accompanies also Rafi Pitts’ successful and gloomy film of 2006 about the daily life in Teheran’s poor neighborhoods, which also bears the same title.


Here below, after the Persian text and English translation of the poem we also include the full concert recording of It’s winter by the Masters in Los Angeles, December 2001 (41 minutes). If you are not yet accustomed to the meditative Persian music, then listen first to the some minutes long detail of the concert illustrated with the photos of two young Iranian photographers, Ehsan Amini and Hamed Masoumi whose pictures also accompany this post. The flash video includes only the last stanza with English subtitles. We do not insert it here, just give a link to it, so you can watch it full size.

As we have written several times already, the musicality of the language and the play with the accidental assonance of words is such an integral part of Persian poetry that it is virtually impossible to translate it to any language. Therefore we only give a more or less literal translation, complemented below with the audio recordings of the poem. This time the translation is not ours, but the widely used one by Mahvash Shahegh, which in some places slightly differs from the original text, and to which we have added in gray the translation of those few verses which, for some unknown reason, were missing from her text.

زمستان است

سلامت را نمی خواهند پاسخ گفت
سرها در گریبان است

کسی سر بر نیارد کرد پاسخ گفتن و دیدار یاران را
نگه جز پیش پا را دید ، نتواند
که ره تاریک و لغزان است
وگر دست محبت سوی کسی یازی
به اکراه آورد دست از بغل بیرون
که سرما سخت سوزان است

نفس ، کز گرمگاه سینه می اید برون ، ابری شود تاریک
چو دیوار ایستد در پیش چشمانت .
نفس کاین است ، پس دیگر چه داری چشم
ز چشم دوستان دور یا نزدیک ؟

مسیحای جوانمرد من ! ای ترسای پیر پیرهن چرکین
هوا بس ناجوانمردانه سرد است … ای
دمت گرم و سرت خوش باد
سلامم را تو پاسخ گوی ، در بگشای

منم من ، میهمان هر شبت ، لولی وش مغموم
منم من ، سنگ تیپاخورده ی رنجور
منم ، دشنام پست آفرینش ، نغمه ی ناجور

نه از رومم ، نه از زنگم ، همان بیرنگ بیرنگم
بیا بگشای در ، بگشای ، دلتنگم
حریفا ! میزبانا ! میهمان سال و ماهت پشت در چون موج می لرزد
تگرگی نیست ، مرگی نیست
صدایی گر شنیدی ، صحبت سرما و دندان است

من امشب آمدستم وام بگزارم
حسابت را کنار جام بگذارم
چه می گویی که بیگه شد ، سحر شد ، بامداد آمد ؟
فریبت می دهد ، بر آسمان این سرخی بعد از سحرگه نیست
حریفا ! گوش سرما برده است این ، یادگار سیلی سرد زمستان است
و قندیل سپهر تنگ میدان ، مرده یا زنده
به تابوت ستبر ظلمت نه توی مرگ اندود ، پنهان است
حریفا ! رو چراغ باده را بفروز ، شب با روز یکسان است

سلامت را نمی خواهند پاسخ گفت
هوا دلگیر ، درها بسته ، سرها در گریبان ، دستها پنهان
نفسها ابر ، دلها خسته و غمگین
درختان اسکلتهای بلور آجین
زمین دلمرده ، سقف آسمان کوتاه
غبار آلوده مهر و ماه
زمستان است

zemestân ast

salâmat-râ nemikhâhand pâsokh goft
sarhâ dar geribân ast

kasi sar bar nayârad kard pâsokh goftan o didâr iârân-râ
negah joz pish-e pâ-râ did, natânad
ke rah târikh o laghzân ast
vagar dast-e mohabbat sui kasi yâzi
be ekrâh âvarad dast az baghal birun
ke sarmâ sakht suzân ast

nafas, kaz garmgâh sine miâyad borun, abri shavad târik
cho divâri isad dar pish-e chasmânat
nafas kinast, pas digar che dâri chasm
ze chasm-e dustân-e dur yâ nazdik?

masihâye javânmard-e man! i tarsâye pir-e pirhan cherkin
havâ bas nâjavanmardâne sar dast… ây
damat garm o sarat khosh bâd
salâmam-râ to pâsakh gui, dar bokshây

manam man, mihmân-e har shabat, luli vash-e maghmun
manam man, sang-e tipâkhorde i ranjur
manam, dushnam-e past-e âfarinesh, naghme-ye nâjur

na az rumam, na az zangam, hamân birang-e birangam
biâ bogshâ-ye dar, bogshâ-ye, dâtnagam
harifâ, mizbânâ, mihmân-e sâl o mâhat posht-e dar jun moj milarzad
tagargi nist, margi nist
sedâyi gar shanidi, sohbot-e sarmâ va dandân ast

man emshab âmadastam vâm bogzâram
hesâbat-râ kenâr-e jâm bogzâram
che miguyi ke miga shod, sahar shod, bâmdâd âmad?
faribat midahad, bar âsmân in sorkhi-ye ba‘d az sahargah nist
harifâ! gush-e sarhâ borde ast in, yâdegâr-e sili-ye sard-e zemestân ast
va ghandil-e sepehr-e tang midân, morde yâ zende
be tâbut-e setabr-e zolmat-e na tuye marg andud, penhân ast
harifâ! ro cherâgh-e bâde-râ befruz, shab bâ ruz yeksân ast

salâmat-râ nemikhâhand pâsokh goft
havâ dâgir, darhâ baste, sarhâ dar garibân, dasteha penhân
nafashâ abr, delhâ khaste va ghamgin
derakhtân eskelethâye bolur âjin
zamin delmorde, saghf âsmân kutâ
ghobâr âlude mehr o mâh
zemestân ast

It’s winter

They are not going to answer your greeting
Their heads are in their collars

Nobody is going to raise his head
To answer a question or to see a friend
The eyes cannot see beyond the feet
The road is dark and slick
If you stretch a friendly hand towards anybody
He hardly brings his hand out of his pocket
For the cold is so bitter

The breath coming out of your chest
Turns into a dark cloud
And stands like a wall in front of your eyes
While your own breath is like this
What do you expect from your distant or close friends?

My gentle Messiah, O, dirty dressed monk
The weather is so ungently cold
You be warm and happy
You answer my greeting and open the door

It is me, your nightly guest, an unhappy gypsy;
It is me, a kicked up, afflicted stone
It is me, a low insult of creation, an untuned melody.

I am neither white nor black, * I am colorless
Come and open the door, see how cheerless I am
O, my dear host, your nightly guest is shivering outside
There is no hail outside, no death;
If you hear any sound, it is the sound of cold and teeth.

I came tonight to repay the loan

to put down my bond beside your cup

What are you saying, that
It is too late, it is dawn, it is day?
That’s an illusion! What you see on the sky
Is not the redness after dawn
It is the result of the winter’s slap
On the sky’s cheeks

And the lantern of the sky, whether dead or alive,

Is covered by the thick coffin of the darkness.

O, partner go and get the wine ready
Days and nights are the same

They are not going to answer your greeting
The air is gloomy, doors are closed,
The heads are in collars, the hands are hidden,
The breaths are clouds, the people are tired and sad,
The trees are crystallized skeletons, the earth is low-spirited
The roof of the sky is low
The sun and moon are hazy
It’s winter

On this recording the poem is recited by Mahvash Shahegh, while on the following video by Mehdi Akhavan Sales himself, who was also an excellent performer.



And here you can listen to the complete concert recording of 2001:

Hossein Alizadeh - Kayhan Kalhor - Mohammad Reza Shajarian – Homayoun Shajarian: Zemestân ast (“It’s winter”). Recording of the December 2001 concert of California (41'47)

The dawn gives news

The sewer in the background is just like the thousand other ones that run down from the Darband through the rich northern suburbs of Tehran to the poor southern suburbs of Tehran, covering a level difference of a thousand meters and a thousand years, flushing the city of twelve million inhabitants with the fresh spring-water of the mountains, and supplying an unforgettable background and pitch-note to such marvelous films like the Bachehâ-ye âseman (Children of the Sky) by Majid Majidi, or Tehrân sâ'at-e haft sobh (Tehran, seven in the morning) by Mohsen Makhmalbaf. The few that we can see of the houses also permits to localize it somewhere in the southern part of the city, in one of the alleys of the former southern center developed by the Shah and since then swallowed by the bazaar, from the low windows suitable both to sale and to fostering neighborhood life, through the sky-blue door to the emerald green moss growing at the foot of the walls. It is only this burning red rusari that we would not find anywhere.

Recently, in a night requiring lots of Catalan red wine we compared with Wang Wei the songs of different changes of regimes from Eastern Europe to the Spanish Transition. Then we quoted by way of example this poem of one of the greatest modern Persian poets Mehdi Akhavan Sales (1928-1991), set to music by Soheil Nafissi. However, in the roll of the video below in vain we look for the name of Sales. Perhaps he was omitted by way of precaution. Sales – ثالث Saless, as one of the best Tehran bookshops rebelliously calls itself (in the quoted post a bit above the portrait of Lőrinc Szabó) – under the Shah’s rule wrote poems expressing the anxiety of the period (to the Zemestan ast, It’s Winter we will dedicate a separate post), and in the thereafter following times ones similar to the Dawn. To this he owes the summary judgment of today’s official Iranian history of literature: “After 1979 his literary activity shows decline.” After the hastily prepared night translation of the post quoted above, now we want to offer a more reasoned one, so that everyone might decide for himself whether it is really a decline (and if yes, then what kind of peaks exist in Persian poetry), and everyone could foretell what it means when such a poem is set to music, sold on a successful CD and broadcasted in Iranian internet radios.

شهاب‌ها و شب‌ها

Shahâbhâ va shabhâ

Comets and nights

Persian poetry is made so beautiful and untranslatable by its preference to exploit the assonance of sounds and the thereby established accidental relations of words. Who would ever think that night and comet, darkness and light are in such a close relationship to each other: shab and shahâb. This constitutes one of the basic motifs of the poem, the thread of sounds “sh” running through it and linking darkness and light, parallel to which runs that of the adjectives and metaphors beginning with “r”.

از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر
شب رفت و با سپیده خبر می‌دهد سحر
از اختر شبان رمه شب رمید و رفت
از رفته و رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر

Az zolmat-e ramide khabar midehad sahar
shab raft o bâ sepide khabar midehad sahar
az akhtar-e shabân rame-ye shab ramid o raft
az rafte o ramide khabar midehad sahar

Of the darkness scared away gives news the dawn the night has gone and with the daybreak gives news the dawn the flock of the night was scared away from the star of the shepherd and has gone of the scared away and the gone gives news the dawn

The quatrains with rhyme scheme AABA or CABA – where A is not just a simple rhyme, but rather the magic repetition of some words throughout the poetry – continue the tradition of medieval Persian rubaiyyat, like the quatrains of Omar Khayyam. Ramidan, scare away, raftan, go (away), rame, flock (related to German and English Ram and ram) – these are the r-columns of this quatrain, resonating with the words akhtar, star (a kin to Latin aster), khabar, news, and of course sahar, dawn, an Arabic word related to the Hebrew Zohar. Sepide, daybreak (which is also a common woman’s name) comes from sefid, white, which, contrasted to the reds of the following strophes, adds further shades to the interplay of darkness and light.

The adjectives scared away and gone in the first three verses refer to the night and its “flock”, but the last verse, by taking them from their context, bears a strong reference to those scared away and gone due to the night. This adumbration, so familiar to the Eastern European reader, is a much liked instrument of Persian poetry.

The “star of the shepherd” is a strange image, but only until we learn that it is also based on verbal consonances. In the term akhtar-e shabân the shabân is an archaic, poetic plural for shab, night, so at first sight it sounds like “star of the nights”. However, shabân also means “shepherd” (this is where Hungarian “csobán” comes from), and the second part of the verse already alludes to this meaning with the word flock, offering such a mythical metaphor for the morning star like the Hungarian poet Ágnes Gergely who also calls it “shepherd of old flocks” in one of her poems.

زنگار خورد جوشن شب را به نوشخند
از تیغ آبدیده خبر می‌دهد سحر
باز از حریق بیشه خاکسترین فلق
آتش به جان خریده خبر می‌دهد سحر

Zangâr khord joshan-e shab-râ bâ nushkhand
az tiq-e âbdide khabar midehad sahar
bâz az hariq-e bishe-ye khâkestarin falaq
âtash be jân kharide khabar midehad sahar

Rust ate the shield of night with a smile of tempered blades gives news the dawn from the grove of the gray morning set to fire brings fire to the soul the news-bringing dawn

In the 80s we Eastern Europeans also learned how rust can eat the shield of the night. However, at that time it was not advisable to speak about tempered blades. In fact, upon a closer view this poem does not speak about them either. Tiq means first of all ray, and only in a second meaning blade or sword. Tiq-e aqtân for example means the rays of the dawn. Thus also the above compound tiq-e âbdide can mean âb-dide, “water-seen” rays, like those of the rising sun reflected on the surface of the water. This would also fit to this poem, nobody can utter a word. However, a much more accepted meaning of this compound is water-seen blade, that is tempered steel sword, and the fact that nobody uttered a word about this either shows how much the rust has already eaten the shield of the night.

از غمز و ناز و انجم و از رمز و راز شب
از دیده و شنیده خبر می‌دهد سحر
بس شد شهید پرده شبها شهاب‌ها
وان پرده‌ها دریده خبر می‌دهد سحر

Az qamz o nâz o anjâm o az ramz o râz-e shab
az dide o shenide khabar midehad sahar
bas shod shahid-e parde-ye shabhâ shahâbhâ
va ân pardehâ daride khabar midehad sahar

Of the signs, coquetry, secrets and termination of the night the things seen and heard gives news the dawn of the comets fallen before the fall of the shroud of the night who tore that shroud off, gives news the dawn

The pulsation of the short words piling up in the first verse is one of the most beautiful examples of the typical Persian play with sounds in this poem.

آه آن پریده رنگ چه بود و چه شد کزو
رنگش ز رخ پریده خبر می‌دهد سحر
چاووش‌خوان قافله روشنان امید
از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر

Âh ân paride rang che bud o che shod kazu
rangash ze rokh paride khabar midehad sahar
châvushkhân-e qâfele-ye roshanân omid
az zolmat-e ramide khabar midehad sahar

Oh, what was that pale color, and how could it be that about pale faces gives news the dawn? She’s the leader of the song of the hope-bringing caravan of stars, of the darkness scared away gives news the dawn.

And now, with full knowledge of the text, let us listen a second time to the video.

Comets and nights Of the darkness scared away gives news the dawn the night’s gone and with the daybreak gives news the dawn the flock of the night was scared away          from the star of the shepherd and has gone, of the scared away and the gone gives news the dawn Rust ate the shield of night with a smile of tempered blades gives news the dawn from the grove of the gray morning set to fire brings fire to the soul the news-bringing dawn Of the signs, coquetry, secrets and termination of the night the things seen and heard gives news the dawn of the comets fallen before the fall of the shroud of the night who tore that shroud off, gives news the dawn Oh, what was that pale color, and how could it be that about pale faces gives news the dawn? She’s the leader of the song of the hope-bringing caravan of stars, of the darkness scared away gives news the dawn.

Shahâbhâ va shabhâ Az zolmat-e ramide khabar midehad sahar shab raft o bâ sepide khabar midehad sahar az akhtar-e shabân rame-ye shab ramid o raft az rafte o ramide khabar midehad sahar Zangâr khord joshan-e shab-râ bâ nushkhand az tiq-e âbdide khabar midehad sahar bâz az hariq-e bishe-ye khâkestarin falaq âtash be jân kharide khabar midehad sahar Az qamz o nâz o anjâm o az ramz o râz-e shab az dide o shenide khabar midehad sahar bas shod shahid-e parde-ye shabhâ shahâbhâ va ân pardehâ daride khabar midehad sahar Âh ân paride rang che bud o che shod kazu rangash ze rokh paride khabar midehad sahar châvushkhân-e qâfele-ye roshanân omid az zolmat-e ramide khabar midehad sahar.

Entre chien et loup

Fuera de nuestra probada afición a la literatura de emblemas, enigmas y jeroglíficos, no nos valen las alusiones artificiosas que luego ocultan un concepto simple. Con el título de la entrada, «entre perro y lobo», se señala en francés el momento impreciso del amancer, cuando

minus abnuerit noctem desisse viator,
Quam coepisse diem.

el viajero conoce que la noche acaba
pero aún no decide que comienza el día.

A principios de los 90 tradujimos estos dos versos de Silio Itálico al húngaro, cuando intuíamos que la noche iba terminando. Que el día no empezaba, que aún habría que estar veinte años –o quizá muchos más– entre perro y lobo, eso no logramos adivinarlo entonces. Aquellos dos versos, con su espantosa tierra de nadie, nos han acompañado durante todos estos años.

* * *

La poesía arábigo andaluza tiene una imagen inolvidable. Antes de saber que Emilio García Gómez le había dedicado un estudio, ya se nos había quedado en la memoria. Dice que el alba separa a los amantes cuando las joyas de la amada repentinamente se enfrían. Una de sus enunciaciones más conocidas está en los versos finales de un poema del algecireño Ibn Abi Ruh (s. XII), que cierran una noche de amor: «Así pasamos la noche hasta que nos hizo separarnos / el frío de las joyas. / Y nada excitó más mi melancolía que el canto del ruiseñor». El frío crudo del alba marca el momento en que se debe iniciar una nueva vida o, más humildemente, un nuevo día. Hay algo paradójico en su enunciación. El alba, nacimiento del nuevo día, se marca con los signos del frío y de la muerte. Esta metáfora ha servido para las transiciones políticas desde una dictadura larga hasta la democracia. O hasta quién sabe qué.

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Es la misma palabra, «alba», con sus vocales tan abiertas, con su profunda blancura interior y sus minutos de expectativa, sus objetos renovados y la incómoda recuperación de las siluetas, su horizonte de plata por un instante frío. En esta palabra casi nace la literatura española. Las albadas y su sensación de sueño roto, pero a la vez de conquista. Desde las jarchas y zéjeles, cantigas, villancicos, estribillos llenos de fuentes frías, ciervos, camisas tendidas al aire y abrazos apresurados o truncados, hasta el agónico «adónde te escondiste, amado, y me dejaste con gemido» con que arranca el Cántico espiritual, o el aprovechamiento de tantas voces populares en el mejor teatro de Lope de Vega: «Si os partiéredes al alba, / quedito, pasito, amor. / No espantéis al ruiseñor». Es un mundo de amaneceres a veces felices, casi siempre rotos. Llenos de prisas, de pérdidas, y en ocasiones, pocas, de esperanzas.

Siguiendo esta línea se llega hasta aquel himno de la España aún predemocrática y, por eso, fuertemente insegura que cantaba Luis Eduardo Aute en su «Al alba».

Hoy, hablando de esta experiencia y de aquellos años entre amigos de países alejados, hemos superpuesto las simbologías políticas de la Transición española y la que se vivió en la Europa del Este.

AL ALBA Letra y música de Luis Eduardo Aute Si te dijera, amor mío, que temo a la madrugada... No sé qué estrellas son estas que rugen como amenazas, ni sé qué sangra la luna al filo de su guadaña. Presiento que tras la noche vendrá otra noche más larga, quiero tenerte muy cerca, amor mío, al alba. Al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba. Los hijos que no tuvimos se esconden en las cloacas... Comen las últimas flores. Parece que adivinaran que el día que se avecina viene con hambre atrasada. Presiento que tras la noche... (etc) Miles de buitres callados van extendiendo sus alas... No te destroce, amor mío, esta silenciosa danza, ¡Maldito baile de muertos, pólvora de la mañana...! Presiento que tras la noche... (etc)

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Bastante más animoso y optimista es el poema del iraní Mehdi Akhavan Sales, y cuánto nos hubiera gustado que fuera uno de nuestros himnos –a pesar de la cierta impericia de la música (2005) y las limitaciones del clip de Soheil Nafissi–. «Qué extraña esta melodía tan suave para un poema tan duro», dice Kata. Sí, pero es como escuchar a Okudzhava con sus cuatro acordes. Y la aparición de la hermosa muchacha persa parece, por un lado, como un camuflaje, como si fuera un poema de amor; pero por otra parte, su rostro, su flamante rusari rojo, su pelo negro asomando bajo el rusari, todos sus gestos son una rebelión. Un pequeño motín que basta para que ese público alcance a ver el gran motín. Igual nos pasaba a nosotros hace treinta o cuarenta años.

NOCHES Y COMETAS Letra de Mehdi Akhavan Sales Música de Soheil Nafissi De un motín contra lo oscuro habla el alba. La noche se ha ido y con la aurora habla el alba. La oveja negra deja la constelación del pastor. De los amotinados y de quienes parten habla el alba. Un óxido imperceptible ha roído el escudo de la noche, de filos agudos habla el alba. De un gris desollado de ramas en la aurora habla la antorcha del alba. De estrellas y misterios y de la noche coqueta, de lo visto y oído, habla el alba. De la multitud de estrellas hacia la oscuridad, de velos rasgados por cometas habla el alba. ¿Adónde fue el color, cómo pasó, habla el alba de rostros exangües? La poetisa del coro de la esperanza. De un motín contra lo oscuro habla el alba.

شهاب‌ها و شب‌ها شعر مهدی اخوان ثالث موسیقی سهیل نفیسی از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر شب رفت و با سپیده خبر می‌دهد سحر از اختر شبان رمه شب رمید و رفت از رفته و رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر زنگار خورد جوشن شب را به نوشخند از تیغ آبدیده خبر می‌دهد سحر باز از حریق بیشه خاکسترین فلق آتش به جان خریده خبر می‌دهد سحر از غمز و ناز و انجم و از رمز و راز شب از دیده و شنیده خبر می‌دهد سحر بس شد شهید پرده شبها شهاب‌ها وان پرده‌ها دریده خبر می‌دهد سحر آه آن پریده رنگ چه بود و چه شد کزو رنگش ز رخ پریده خبر می‌دهد سحر چاووش‌خوان قافله روشنان امید از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر

P.S. Later we have translated this poem by Sales with some more detailed comments as well. You can read it here.

Entre chien et loup

We hate mysteriousness that suggests more than what it really covers. This is why we, in a quite uncouth way, explain that the title literally says “between dog and wolf”, and in a figurative meaning it refers to that moment of early morning twilight when

minus abnuerit noctem desisse viator,
Quam coepisse diem.

when the traveler already knows that the night is over
but he is not sure whether the new day is breaking.

We have translated into Hungarian these two verses of Silius Italicus in the early 90's, when we already knew more or less that the night was over. That the new day is not breaking, that we would have to get through twenty and probably even much more years between wolf and dog, that we did not yet know. But these two verses, the horror of this no-man's-moment has since then accompanied us in thought.

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Arabo-Andaluzian poetry has an unforgettable image that was fixed in our memory long before Emilio García Gómez dedicated a study to it. These verses say the dawn separates lovers in that very moment when the jewels of the beloved woman suddenly turn cold. The cruel cold of the dawn marks the moment when one has to begin a new life, or – more humbly – a new day. There is something paradoxical in this expression. The dawn, the birth of the new day is marked with the signs of the cold and of the death. This metaphor has been applied on various political transitions from a long dictatorship into democracy. Or into who knows what.

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It is the same word, “alba”, with its vocales so open, its deep internal whiteness and its ephemeral life, with its renewed objects, misty outlines and silver horizon that evocates a sudden cold. Spanish literature is born in this very word. The albadas with the impression of broken dreams and, in the same times, of conquest. From the jarchas and zéjeles, cantigas, villancicos, estribillos, full of cold springs, deers, shirts hung out on the air, hasty or broken embraces, to the agonizing “adónde te escondiste, amado, y me dejaste con gemido” (where have you hidden, my beloved, leaving me with crying”) of the Cántico espiritual of Saint John of the Cross, or to the inclusion of so many popular expressions in the best theatre of Lope de Vega: “Si os partiéredes al alba, / quedito, pasito, amor. / No espantéis al ruiseñor” (If you leave in the dawn / my little, my sweethart, my beloved / do not wake up the nightingale). A world of dawns, sometimes happy, sometimes broken. Full of hurry, of loss, and in some – very few – cases, of hopes.

This line of tradition is followed by that “unofficial hymn” of the still predemocrática, and therefore deeply uncertain Spain which was created with the Al alba of Luis Eduardo Aute.

This night, speaking among friends coming from opposite fines terrae about those experiences and those years, the political symbologies of the Spanish Transición and the East-European “change of regime” were subtly superposed on each other.

IN THE DAWN Poem and music by Luis Eduardo Aute I told you my love that I fear the coming of the dawn. I don’t know what kind of stars are these roaring so wild, and why the blade of the moon is so bloody. I feel that the night is followed by another, much longer night, and I want to keep you tight, very tight my love, in the dawn in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn, in the dawn. Our never born children are hiding in the cloacas, they will devore the last flowers, as if they knew that the new day is nearing with hunger. I feel, that the night... (etc.) Thousands of silent vultures open wide their wings, but you, my love, don’t bother with this soundless dance, with the damned dance of the dead, the dust of the tomorrow. I feel, that the night... (stb.)

AL ALBA Letra y música de Luis Eduardo Aute Si te dijera, amor mío, que temo a la madrugada... No sé qué estrellas son estas que rugen como amenazas, ni sé qué sangra la luna al filo de su guadaña. Presiento que tras la noche vendrá otra noche más larga, quiero tenerte muy cerca, amor mío, al alba. Al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba, al alba. Los hijos que no tuvimos se esconden en las cloacas... Comen las últimas flores. Parece que adivinaran que el día que se avecina viene con hambre atrasada. Presiento que tras la noche... (etc) Miles de buitres callados van extendiendo sus alas... No te destroce, amor mío, esta silenciosa danza, ¡Maldito baile de muertos, pólvora de la mañana...! Presiento que tras la noche... (etc)

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How much more strong-minded and optimistic is the poem of the Iranian Mehdi Akhavan Sales, how much more it is as we would have liked to see ourselves. Even with the lack of skill of the music (2005) and clip of Soheil Nafissi. “Strange, such a hard poem with such a soft melody”, Kata says. Yes. But it is just like listening to Okudzhava with his four chords. And as the beautiful Persian girl appears, on the one hand it is like a camouflage, as if this was a love poem, and on the other hand her face, her flaming red rusari, her black hair falling from under the rusari, all her behavior is a mutiny. And this small mutiny is enough for that public to understand the big one, like it was for us some thirty or forty years before.

NIGHTS AND COMETS Poem by Mehdi Akhavan Sales Music by Soheil Nafissi Of a mutiny against darkness speaks the dawn. The night is gone and with daybreak speaks the dawn. The sheep of darkness left the shepherd's constellation, Of the mutinous and the departed speaks the dawn. Rust slyly ate away at the shield of the night, Of drawn blades speaks the­ dawn. Of the scorching of the grayish grove of daybreak Speaks the torch-holding dawn. Of stars and mysteries and coquetry of the night, Of the heard and the seen speaks the dawn. Of the many falling stars in darkness, Of shrouds torn by shooting stars speaks the dawn. What was that loss of color and how come The dawn speaks of pale visages? The songstress of the choir of hope, Of a mutiny against darkness speaks the dawn.

شهاب‌ها و شب‌ها شعر مهدی اخوان ثالث موسیقی سهیل نفیسی از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر شب رفت و با سپیده خبر می‌دهد سحر از اختر شبان رمه شب رمید و رفت از رفته و رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر زنگار خورد جوشن شب را به نوشخند از تیغ آبدیده خبر می‌دهد سحر باز از حریق بیشه خاکسترین فلق آتش به جان خریده خبر می‌دهد سحر از غمز و ناز و انجم و از رمز و راز شب از دیده و شنیده خبر می‌دهد سحر بس شد شهید پرده شبها شهاب‌ها وان پرده‌ها دریده خبر می‌دهد سحر آه آن پریده رنگ چه بود و چه شد کزو رنگش ز رخ پریده خبر می‌دهد سحر چاووش‌خوان قافله روشنان امید از ظلمت رمیده خبر می‌دهد سحر

P.S. Later we have translated this poem by Sales with some more detailed comments as well. You can read it here.