For My Classmates to Read

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.

And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.

And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

By: Alexander Pushkin

Taken from

My Little Window

I have a little window of my own,
of my dreams,
and of my solitude.
Standing near it, I can touch the sky,
conquer the peaks,
fly like a lark,
and smell lilies.
Crying near it, I can see my fate,
hear the pains,
wash my soul,
and smell the rain.
Smiling near it, I can find my missing,
embrace the fears,
caress the clouds,
and smell the wind.
I have a little window of my own,
of my hopes,
and of my future.

By Parisa Mehran

My Flowers

I had a garden
full of flowers,
rich of flowers up to the edge of the wall
all the flowers, even the flower of reed,
rich of flower, rich
up to the edge of the wall.
My flowers never sneaked on the wall
even my eglantine and golden cascades.

I had an arbour of “never forget me” flowers
a dress of roses
and a bed of jasmines.
At nights, I hanged the “lantern flowers” to my arbour
and at morning, buttercup to my hair.

I had a necklace of orange blooms
which never withered.

I used to sew my dresses with pine needle
and wore digital flower on my finger.

My flowers
were all soft and kind.
My flowers had no thorn
they loved me, as well as sparrows and butterflies.

Now it is a while
I don’t know why
the lanterns have wick
and the flowers sneak out the wall.

By: Maryam Zandi from Iran My Beloved Flower translated by Mehdi Afshar