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A quatrain from Attar

گل گفت که دست زرفشان آوردم خندان خندان سر به جهان آوردم

gol goft ke dast-e zarfashān āvordam

khandān, khandān sar be jahān āvordam

The flower said I brought out its gold-scattering hand

Laughing, laughing, I drew out its head into the world

هر نقد که بود در میان ٬ آوردم

بند از سرِ کیسه برگرفتم رفتم

har naqd ke bud dar mayān āvordam

band az sar-e kiseh bar gereftam, raftam

All the treasure that was inside, I took

I undid the string from the purse and I left

naqd, apart from meaning coin, treasure, can mean metaphorically treasures of the spirit. Wisdom, beauty etc.

The gold-scattering hand of the flower, that is the bud that spreads golden pollen.

I drew out its head (bud) into the world, like someone helping the flower give birth.

Llibre d'Amic e Amat 68

Deia l'amic a son amat: - Tu est tot, e per tot, e en tot, e ab tot. Tu vull tot, per ço que haja e sia tot mi. Respòs l'amat: - No em pots haver tot sens que tu no sies de mi. E dix l'amic: - Hages-me tot, e jo tu tot. Respòs l'amat: - Què haurà ton fill, ton frare e ton pare? Dix l'amic: - Tu est tal tot, que pots abundar a ésser tot de cascú qui es dóna a tu tot.

The Friend said to his Beloved

You are all, and for all, and in all, and with all. I want you all, so that I can have all of me and be all of me.

The Beloved replied

You cannot have all of me, without being of me.

And the Friend said

Have me all, and I all of you

The Beloved replied

What then will your son, your brother and your father have of you?

The Friend said:

Such is your allness, that you suffice to be the all of everyone who gives all of themselves to you.

#ramon llull

Aquest món és dit nit, e l'altra vida dia clar. Ara nosaltres som axi com a muçols, o rates penades, o olibes. Tant és la claritat altra.

This world is called night, and the other life, clear day. Now, we are like owls, or bats. So of another kind is the clarity of the other side.

Vicent Ferrer

Pastāvēs, kas pārvērtīsies

Only what changes will last

Rainis

Inork agintzen ez didalako

dut maite

maite dudana.

Inork agintzen ez didalako

ditut basamortua eta izarlokak maite.

Itsasontzi noragabeak, gauerdiko biolinak

ilunabarren margoa, xorino hezurttoen higidura,

sagarrondoetan eskegiriko bihotz horiak,

tristura handiegia zaien neskatxak

eta zure irria, zure irria ere

inork agintzen ez dudalako

dut maite.

Because no one has told me to

I love

What I love

Because no one has told me to

I love the desert and the shooting stars.

Boats without aim, violins of the middle day

The colour of the sunset, the movement of the little bones of birdies

The yellow cores hanging from the apple trees

The girls for whom the sadness is too great to bear

And your smile, your smile too

Because no one has told me to

I love

#joseba sarrionandia

Yet when we want children to learn compassion for refugees, we don’t take them to the neighbouring suburbs to meet real refugees. We make them read a book or watch a movie. I am asked to give talks to schools about the killing fields of Cambodia, but am often warned beforehand not to make it ‘too traumatic for our girls, please’. I’m supposed to spread an anti-war message, but spare the details; to convey a triumph-over-adversity narrative. While I was writing my book about my father, even he asked, ‘Maybe there’s too much suffering in here? White people don’t want to read too much suffering.’

Alice Pung ‘On John Marsden’

Madre

E il cuore quando d’un ultimo battito avrà fatto cadere il muro d’ombra per condurmi, Madre, sino al Signore, come una volta mi darai la mano.

In ginocchio, decisa, Sarai una statua davanti all’eterno, come già ti vedeva quando eri ancora in vita.

Alzerai tremante le vecchie braccia, come quando spirasti dicendo: Mio Dio, eccomi.

E solo quando m’avrà perdonato, ti verrà desiderio di guardarmi.

Ricorderai d’avermi atteso tanto, e avrai negli occhi un rapido sospiro.

And when my heart

with a final beat

knocks down the wall of shadow

to take me, Mother, to the Lord,

Like you once held my hand

On your knees, decided,

You will be a statue before Eternity

Like I used to see you

When you were still alive

You will raise your trembling old arms

Like when you breathed your last

saying: My God, here I am.

And only when He will have pardoned me

The desire to see me will come to you

You will remember waiting for me for so long

And in your eyes you will have a quick sigh.

- 1930

#giuseppe ungaretti

Christmas

Natale Non ho voglia di tuffarmi in un gomitolo di strade Ho tanta stanchezza sulle spalle Lasciatemi così come una cosa posata in un angolo e dimenticata Qui non si sente altro che il caldo buono Sto con le quattro capriole di fumo del focolare

I don’t want

to dive

into a yarn-ball

of streets

Too much

tiredness

On my shoulders

Leave me like this

Like a

thing

laid

in a

corner

and forgotten

Here

No other feeling

than

the warm heat

I sit

with the four

smoke rings

of the hearth

December 1916. World War I. Ungaretti is on leave. He returns home from the war front during the Christmas festivities.

#giuseppe ungaretti

کسی به فکر گلها نیست (no one thinks about the flowers)

No one is thinking about the flowers, no one is thinking about the fish, no one wants to believe that the garden is dying, that the garden's heart has swollen under the sun, that the garden's mind is slowly being drained of green memories, that the garden's senses are a separate thing rotting huddled in a corner. our old courtyard is lonely. our garden yawns in anticipation of an unknown rain cloud, and our pool is empty. inexperienced little stars fall to the earth from treetop heights. and from the pale windows of the fishes' abode the sound of coughing comes at night. our courtyard garden is lonely. Fathers says: it's too late for me. it's over for me. I shouldered my burden and did my share. and in this room, from dawn to disk, he reads either the Shahnameh or The History Of Histories. Father says to Mother: to hell with all birds and fish. when I die, then what difference will it make that there is a garden or there isn't a garden? my retirement pension is enough for me. Mother's whole life is a prayer rug spread at the threshold of fears of hell. at the bottom of everything Mother always searches for traces of sin and thinks that a plant's apostasy has contaminated the garden. Mother prays all day long. Mother is a natural sinner and she breathes on all the flowers and on all the fish, and exorcises herself. Mother is waiting for a coming and a forgiveness to descend upon the earth. My brother calls the garden a graveyard. My brother laughs at the profusion of weeds and keeps a count of the fish corpses that decompose beneath the water's sick skin. My brother is addicted to philosophy. My brother thinks the cure for the garden lies in its destruction. he gets drunk and bangs on doors and walls and tries to say that he is very wart, despondent and despairing. he carries his despair along with his identity cars, pocket calendar, lighter and ballpoint pen to the street and the bazaar. and his despair is so small that every night It gets lost in the crowd at the bar. and my sister who was the flowers' friend and took her heart's simple words to their kind and silent company when Mother spanked her and occasionally offered sun and cookies to the family of fishÉ her house is on the other side of the city. in her artificial home, with her artificial goldfish, and in the security of her artificial husband's love, and under the branches of her artificial apple tree, she sings artificial songs and produces very real babies. whenever she comes to visit us and the hem of her skirt gets soiled with the garden's poverty, she takes a perfume bath. Every time she comes to visit us, she is pregnant. Our garden is lonely, our garden is lonely. all day long from behind the door comes the sound of shattering and explosions. all our neighbors plant bombs and machineguns in their gardens instead of flowers. all our neighbors cover their tiled ponds, which become unwitting secret storehouses of gunpowder. and the children along our street have filled their schoolbags with small bombs. our garden is confused. I fear an age that has lost its heart. I am scared of the thought of so many useless hands and of picturing so many estranged faces. like a school child madly in love with her geometry lesson, I am alone. and I think that the garden can be taken to a hospital. I think... I think... I think... and the garden's heart has swollen under the sun, and the garden mind is slowly being emptied of green memories.

#فروغ فرخزاد

Solo una mano d'Angelo

Solo un mano d'Angelo intatta di sé, del suo amore per sé, potrebbe offrirmi la concavità del suo palmo perché vi riversi il mio pianto. La mano dell'uomo vivente è troppo impigliata nei fili dell'oggi e dell'ieri, è troppo ricolma di vita e di plasma di vita! Non potrà mai la mano dell'uomo mondarsi per il tranquillo pianto del proprio fratello! E dunque, soltanto una mano di Angelo bianco dalle lontane radici nutrite d'eterno e d'immenso potrebbe filtrare serena le confessioni dell'uomo senza vibrarne sul fondo in un cenno di viva ripulsa.

Only the hand of an angel

Unsullied by itself, by its love for itself

could

offer me the crook of its palm

to spill my lament inside.

The hand of the living man

is too snagged on the threads of today and yesterday

and too brimming with life and the plasma of life

The hand of man will never purify itself

for the calm weeping of his own brother

And so, only a white angel’s hand

from distant roots, fed on eternity and immensity

could sift serenely the confessions of man

without trembling in a sign of strong repulsion.

#alda merini

PEQUEÑA rosa, rosa pequeña, a veces, diminuta y desnuda, parece que en una mano mía cabes, que así voy a cerrarte y a llevarte a mi boca, pero de pronto mis pies tocan tus pies y mi boca tus labios, has crecido, suben tus hombros como dos colinas, tus pechos se pasean por mi pecho, mi brazo alcanza apenas a rodear la delgada línea de luna nueva que tiene tu cintura: en el amor como agua de mar te has desatado: mido apenas los ojos más extensos del cielo y me inclino a tu boca para besar la tierra.

From the first settlement on Australia by the British in 1788 until the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act of 1976—for the Northern Territory—and the Native Title Act of 1993—for Australia as a whole, there was no official recognition of Indigenous ownership of the land.

Lettre de Simone Weil à Antonio Atarès #5

Tu me dis de ne pas me priver pour toi parce que la vie d'être sain vaut plus que celle de deux anémiques. Cela m'a fait de la peine. Es-tu donc malade ? Moi sans être malade, j'ai très peu de force et de vitalité.

You tell me to not deprive myself of things for your sake, because the life of a healthy being is worth more than that of two anemic people. That caused me pain. Are you then sick? Me, even without being sick, I have very little force and vitality.

Jesus Simone, this guy is telling you not to send money to him because he is worried about you. You completely ignore that and ask him if he’s sick.

Was there ever a time when you weren’t thinking about other people?

#Simone Weil

Lettre de Simone Weil à Antonio Atarès #3

Je t'ai envoyé un mandat ; je t'en enverrai de temps en temps, selon tes besoins et mes possibilités.

Je ne crois pas que tu aies de scrupule ni d'hésitation à avoir à ce sujet.

Quand j'ai un peu d'argent entre les mains, je n'ai jamais l'impression que cet argent est ma propriété.

Il se trouve là, simplement.

Si j'en envoie, je n'ai pas le sentiment de le donner.

Il passe simplement de mes mains à celles de quelqu'un d'autre qui en a besoin, et j'ai le sentiment que je n'y suis pour rien.

Je voudrais bien que l'argent soit comme l'eau, et coule de lui-même là où il y en a trop peu.

Toi et moi, ce que nous nous donnons l'un à l'autre et recevons l'un de l'autre, ce sont des pensées et des sentiments sous forme de lettres.

I’ve sent you some money; I will send some to you from time to time, according to your needs and my abilities.

I don’t think you need have any scrupules or hesitations about this.

When I get my hands on a little bit of money, I never have the impression that this money is my property.

It just happens to find itself there.

If I send money, I don’t have the sensation of giving it.

It simply passes from my hands to those of someone else who needs it, and I have the sensation that I’m not at all responsible.

I would like it if money were like water, and it flowed by itself to wherever there was too little.

You and me, what we give to each other and receive from each other, are thoughts and sentiments in the form of letters.

#Simone Weil

After 14 or so years living in Sydney, I found out this week that there is a Basque gastronomical society, Gure Txoko, and they have free Basque classes funded by the Basque government.

But I’m moving to Canberra this week.

My life has no meaning.

"Més enllà de les nostres fronteres, l'anglès ens ajuda a posar-nos en contacte amb persones i cultures ben diferents: si no fos per una llengua comú, desarrelada ja fins i tot dels seus orígens, no ens seria pas possible, aquesta comunicació tan rica i fructífera. "

Un moment, un moment. El que estàs definint no és l'anglès, és l'existència d'una llengua comuna per a tothom. I ja veurem si l'anglès servirà per "entrar en contacte amb cultures diferents" o per matar-les.

Jo, estic a favor que hi hagi una llengua comuna per a tothom, a condició que no sigui la llengua de ningú. Si no, hi ha ciutadans de primera i de segona. Si no, estem donant un avantatge afegit als poderosos del planeta. Què fan els angloamericans durant la incomptable sèrie d'hores que nosaltres hem de dedicar a aprendre la seva llengua? Ells no aprenen la nostra, ni cap d'altra. Ells es preparen. Què fan amb els diners que s'estalvien perquè no han d'aprendre anglès? Ells es preparen. Són ja d'entrada més rics, tenen més temps i es preparen millor (i si no es preparen gaire sempre trobaran feina com a professors d'anglès en algun racó de món). De manera que el dia que hagis de competir amb ells per una plaça laboral, per vendre un producte o en un congrés de qualsevol matèria, ells hauran tingut més temps per preparar-se i sempre jugaran a casa perquè el teu anglès mai no serà tan fluïd, tan fresc i tan convincent com el d'ells.

No entenc el vostre entusiasme. A casa meva, d'això en diuen "cornuts i pagar el beure".

"Beyond our borders, English helps us to get into contact with people and cultures very different from our own. If it wasn't for a language in common, derooted even from its origins, it wuldn't be possible for us to have that rich and fruitful communication that we enjoy."

Wait up, wait up. What are you are defining is not English, it is the existence of a language that is common to everyone. And we'll see whether English will help us to "enter into contact with different cultures" or will kill them.

I am for having a common language for everyone, on the condition that this be the language of no one. If not, there are going to be first class and second class citizens. If not, we are giving an extra advantage to the powerful of the planet. What do the Anglo-Americans do during the countless hours that we have to dedicate towards learning their language? They don't learn our language, nor do they learn any other language. They prepare. What do they do with the money that they save because they don't have to learn English? They prepare. They're from the outset richer, they have more time and they prepare themselves better. And if they fail to prepare themselves better than us, almost always they'll be able to at least find some job as an English teacher in some corner of the world. So that the day we have to compete with them for a job placement, to sell a product or in a meeting of whatever subject, they will have had more time to prepare themselves and they will always play from a home field advantage because your English will never as fluid, as fresh and as convincing as theirs.

I don't understand your enthusiasm. Where I live, we call that "getting kicked in the balls and having to be grateful for it."

Let me add something that I feel could be added to this comment that I found. Not only are we native speakers more fluent in our language than learners, by definition, we unfairly tilt the playing field so that if you don't have our accent, we discriminate against you. It's a well known fact that Chinese people or Indians with their accents get discriminated against in work and finding a place to live, how can they compete with prejudice like that?

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