Ahmad Shamlou, Master poet of liberty

The world is a short stop
In the distance between Sin and hell.
Sun rises as a curse
And the day is an
Irredeemable shamefulness.

O, say something
Before I drown in tears.

The trees are the sinful
Ignorance of the ancestors,
Breeze, a wicked temptation,
The autumnal moonlight,
A blasphemy, soiling the world.

Springs gush out of coffins
And the disheveled mourners,
Are the honour of the earth.

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They smell your mouth
To make sure you have not said
I love you.
They smell your mind.
This is a strange time, my dear.

Do not risk thinking.
This is a strange time, my dear.

The one knocking at the door
At night
Has come to kill the light.
You should hide the light
In the closet.

Now, here are the butchers
Stationed at each cross-road
With tree-trunks and cleavers
Dripping of blood.
This is a strange time, my dear.

Surgically,
They put smile on lips
And song in the mouth.
You should hide the joy in the closet.

Canaries roast
On the fire of lilies and lilacs!
This is a strange time, my dear.
The devil drunk with triumph
Celebrates our mourning at his table.
We have to hide G-d In the closet.