Speaking and writing about spring is a long tradition. All our predecessors, whose virtue and wisdom is now the cultural reservoir of our country, have penned down magnificent poems and writings about spring. We were also obliged to write about spring from a young age when we were primary school students. I am asked to write about spring now that here I am, overwhelmed by the passing of years into the second half of my prospectively 100-year-old life.
We can no longer speak of that pure freshness of love. Pretentious and unreal attachments, so countless, have blinded our hearts to see spring. What can I say about spring? Can someone who is looking down from these cement-coated window frames into the bus stations, someone who hears only the sound of car engines ever speak about spring? My share of the rebirth of earth, the miracle of creation, and this re-blossoming of life are three plants whose withering leaves beseech to be reunited with the rays of sun. Urbanism, cars, cholesterol, currency exchange have vanquished that love.
Spring arrives every year. But what is leaving for good is the spring and blooming of hearts and principles of morality, munificence, and nobility. What are arriving to remain forever are dishonored cheques, political chicaneries, and Sultan Suleiman al-Qanuni!
Perhaps I can once a year find a poplar tree to sit by and wait for a breeze to blow, clap the hands of leaves together, and take me to the age of purity of affections. Here I am withering by, longing for the sun to shine once again.
Hedayatollah Behboudi
Translated by: Katayoun Davallou
