They will not answer your hello
Their heads are hanging low
It’s from their breasts they seek warmth
No one can raise a head to meet the visitors.
One cannot see beyond one’s feet;
The road is dark
You extend a loving hand to others
While they are sloth to extend theirs to you.
It is bitterly cold;
The breath issuing forth from their chests
Turns into a dark pall of cloud,
Rising up to meet you.
This is the breath. What do you expect
Close and distant friends to be like?
O my Meek Messiah!
O Old Christian clad in tatters!
May your breath be warm!
It’s tyrannically cold.
May your head be merry!
Answer my hello! Open your door to me!
This is me, a perpetually nocturnal visitor,
A disheartened gypsy!
This is me, a piece of stone, kicked and afflicted;
This is me, an insult for creation, an untuned melody.
Neither am I black nor white;
But a purely colorless being.
Come! Open the door! I am sick at heart.
O rival! O host!
Your perpetual visitor is shaking at the door like a ripple.
There’s no hail nor is there any death!
If there’s any sound,
It’s but that of cold and teeth chattering.
Tonight I am here to pay my debts;
To leave your debts by your jar of wine.
What do you say,
That it’s too late
That it is the break of dawn
That morning has fallen?
What a deceit!
This is not the redness emerging after dawn breaks.
Alack! That is the sign of winter’s slap
On the cheeks of winter.
And the icicle of the firmament, the sun
– Dead or alive-
Is blurred and buried
In the thick darkness of the deathly coffin.
Make ready the cups of wine;
Night and day are the same.
They barely wish to answer your hello
The sky’s gloomy;
The doors closed;
The heads hanging low;
The hands hidden.
The breaths cloudy;
The hearts downcast and weary.
The trees are crystalized skeletons.
The earth is dejected;
The sky’s ceiling is low.
Misty are the sun and the moon;
It is winter.
Translated by Ali Salami