Siavash Kasraie (also spelled as Siavash Kasrai) was an Iranian poet. Kasraie graduated from Tehran University, Faculty of Law. A native of Isfahan, his first collection of poetry was published in 1957. His second book, Arash the Archer (1959), brought him immediate fame. This epic narrative, based on ancient Persian myth, depicts Arash's heroic sacrifice to liberate his country from foreign domination.
In his historical stories, Kasraie demonstrates a clear sense of class-consciousness. Kasraie's basic impulse was lyric, rather than epic. He reflects his individual personality in his poems. He's composed many revolutionary poems, of which some have served as anthem for political parties.
An Ode To A Tree
You are the tall figure of desire, O' tree
The sky embraces you at all times
You are tall, O' tree
Your hands are full of stars and your soul full of spring
You are beautiful, O' tree
When winds make a nest in your tangled leaves,
When winds comb your green hair,
You are fantastic, O' tree
When the wild fingers of rain grasp you,
In its cold feast
You are the sad, sweet-singing musician, O' tree
Under your feet,
Here is night and night-struck people whose eyes
Have not seen the day
How is it that you have seen the day?
How is it that you have seen the sun?
And you are amazingly gazing at them, O' tree!
As you bound the earthly people by a thousand strings,
Don't be scared of thunder,
Don't be scared of lightning.
You will prevail, O' tree
Don't rebel, O'scared tree that like our hope,
You are with us, but still lonely, O' tree.
My Flower, O Spring of Liberty!
Everywhere the verdant spring is breathing,
The fervent tulip is busy dancing,
O my flower, you also blossom,
The spring has arrived,
It has arrived,
Boil out of the mountain's heart like the anemone,
Smile like lotus upon the stream's bank,
Make music, sing and revel again with coyness,
Begin a anew life,
Give happy tidings,
Say that daytime has arrived,
Night has expired,
The sun is smiling!
My flower, O blossom of joy!
My flower, O spring of liberty!
Cannot contain within the framework of poetry,
It cannot sit still,
To let me make a sketch,
Worthy to remain lasting.
Which flint stone
Should I shatter,
Turn into pulp and
On a blazing Damavand furnace
To polish your steel?
How can I gather kindness and anger
How can I challenge the sun with a sword?
How can I let the blinking stars
Flow like the river?
How can I lay a hope like dawn
In the black heart of this dark night?
How can I
Engrave your eyes?
Let me sit in silence,
Patient and in ambuscade,
The swinging of the waves,
Perhaps a wave of strange fish
May fall in my trap and then I
An image of your tireless remembrance.
O combatant river!
O searching river!
O rushing river, stop for a while,
Till age itself
Shall array its youth in your bosom.
Stay till the traveler's companion
Can refresh his sad rose
With your gaiety;
Stay until the child
Can reach the sea with you;
Until one like me
The wisdom of change of fire
On the water.
But you cannot be contained,
You cannot sit,
You cannot stay, O freeborn!
Will record your recollection
On the blood woven canvas of my heart
With the perfume of the age of iron and tyranny
And the color of unbreakable metal of pain...
Like the silk dress of a March morning
And the body of storm
And the rejoicing of hundred thousands handkerchiefs and eyes
And the contented look of rice plantation
Over the hill,
Which drinks milk and honey.
You shared your bread and name with us,
And pledged our honor.
Now O ancient youth!
Be like eternal wine
To our friends.