Softly, spring is arriving now
Softly, spring is arriving now
I stand on the edge of spring and look back at the sufferings and calamities that have gripped many, and the wound of grief that never becomes old for me
I still speak the language of winter days, cold, biting, and bitter. It’s not in my control; the times are bitter, and our taste is even more so
I wonder where those spring guests are, those who were with you every year and with whom you renewed the year. They are not here; they have joined oblivion. They have gone to another world with the violets
There are others who left the violets here and moved to a place to build a better life
Did they succeed?
I don’t know
But their absence and longing weigh heavily on our hearts
Now that we are on the edge of spring, these absences cut deeper into our hearts
For me, it has been several years that spring is no longer spring
I don’t know if I would even realize that spring is softly arriving if it weren’t for the calendar clock of plants and greenery
I don’t even know if, as the years pass, spring will regain its former color and vibrancy for me
Of course, times haven’t always been like this. At least as far as I can delve into my memory, beautiful memories also emerge from the recesses of my mind
Back then, we would stand behind the window, watching a few trees in the yard shaking off winter, thinking that the new year, adorned, was arriving from afar and our year was turning
We would wear new clothes, grandpa would blow-dry our hair, take out his Kodak camera, and take pictures of us
We have plenty of such New Year photos in our family albums, standing stiff like wood, staring at the camera without a smile
Back then, the new year smelled strongly of fresh paint, new wallpaper, and herb rice with fish
Newness poured from every corner
Our tradition was that every year grandpa would change the wallpaper. I don’t know, maybe they weren’t of good quality, that’s why we had this routine every year, and we kids would crawl underfoot, pretending to help
But reaching this sweet memory, bitterness seeps into my soul, a lump catches in my throat because now one of us is not here; my brother has gone with the violets to that world
Grandpa has become old and bent
That house is no longer there; an apartment has grown in its place
For years, no one has changed the wallpaper in our house
In the past, spring was beautiful, just as Ahmadreza Ahmadi described it: I open the window, the snow has finally melted
The violets rise from under the snow, returning spring to the morning sun
With an eye of mine that darkened in winter, I see the violets through a curtain soaked with fog and rain
I still remember the color of the violets from the past
I bring out the color of the violets from memory
I engrave it on the violets behind the window, then the young violets move away from my sight
Again, the young violets will be my share; the violets will no longer escape my sight
I see the violets as the lifespan of violets, like every Farvardin
That curtain soaked with false fog and rain melts away from my eyes
A curtain of fog and rain forms over the young violets
With belief, I open the window; it is spring
One day, I too will open the window with belief
With a heart full of hope, I await spring
The spring that must come to remove the cold and bitterness from my heart
Spring must come, indeed it must come, a spring that promises liberation