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Persianback NIMA YUSHIJ
translation from Persian by Kaveh Bassiri
Raven
At nightfall, when the sun over the highlands
is veiled in the yellows of grief,
a raven sits alone by the shore.
The distant waters share the color of sky.
An oak, yellow with autumn,
has collapsed headlong
over a patch of rock.
From among the distant spots,
one appears,
a man in search of a corner
hidden from the eyes of others
where for a moment he can speak
the heart’s secret sorrows.
He finds a suitable place.
The raven’s gaze is fixed on him,
stitching unperturbed, like waves in a flood,
watching what passes on the road:
good omen or bad?
It sees a thing like others it has seen before,
a line on the horizon crossing its sight,
faraway scorched buildings,
a cloud over a remote beach.
Now, they look at each other from a distance,
this figure of a raven, and the darkness,
and that of a man, whatever you imagine.
Since the raven is a source of sorrow in the man’s eyes, ugly,
it is the subject of a tale of lamentation,
a bandit on the road to paradise.
It is perched to heap sorrow upon sorrow,
to appear in a dream at the threshold of sadness
and open the door for all
to destroy the small homes of those thoughts.
He calls out: “You, Raven!”
But indifferent to wet or dry, good or evil,
the raven stares at him,
cold and motionless,
as the waves sullenly come and go.
Something is hidden.
Something is chewed. 
Contributor’s notes: Nima Yushij
Contributor’s notes: Kaveh Bassiri