One of the Iran's most celebrated contemporary poet

Sohrab Sepehri, poet and painter was born in 1928 in Kashan Iran. After obtaining his high school diploma, he attended and obtained a Bachelor of Arts from Honar-haye Ziba (Fine Arts) Faculty of Tehran University. In the first twelve years after his graduation he worked in several government agencies while on the side pursuing his personal interest in poetry and painting. During these years he also traveled on numerous occasions to Europe, and Africa.

In 1964 he completely resigned from his governmental position and began focusing all his time and energy on poetry and painting. He moved and lived in USA for one year, and subsequently spent about two years living in Paris. During this time period he painted numerous paintings applying the same soft and gentle style, which can be found in his poems.

In 1979 he was diagnosed with cancer and for the last time he moved to England for treatment. A year later, in 1980, he passed away in Tehran and now he rests in his birthplace, Kashan.

The Foot Steps Of Water
Life's a pleasant tradition.
Life's wing is as vast as death.
 

Life's a jump the size of love.
Life's not something,
we put on the mantel of habit
and forget.

It does not matter where I am.
The sky is always mine.
Windows, ideas, air, love,
earth, all mine.
Why does it matter if sometimes,
the mushrooms of nostalgia grow?

Let's take off our clothes.
Water is just a foot away.
Let's have a basket and
fill it up with all the greens
and all the reds.

We are not to comprehend;
the secret of roses, but maybe
swimming in the incantation of roses.
Or may be looking for
the song of truth
between the morning glory,
and the century.

Translated by:
Mahvash Shahegh

Bodhi
There was a special moment,
All doors were open.
 

No leaves, no branches,
The garden of annihilation had appeared.

Birds of places were silent,
This silent, that silent,
The silence itself was utterance.

What was that area?
Seems a ewe and a wolf,
Standing side by side.*
The shape of the sound, pale
The voice of the shape, weak
Was the curtain folded?

I was gone, he was gone,
We had lost us.
The beauty was alone.
Every river had become a sea,
Every being had become a Buddha.

(* Refers to dawn )