Paroles et traduction Shahin Najafi - Beshmar

Beshmar

شعر درمون نیست دردیه معجون از
غم و خشم و جنون معدوم
اونکه میبازه سر و تو هنر پس
معلومه محصول فاسد مزرعه حاصل
کار یه مشت فاسد مقصود کو
مشکوک مسئول معشوق مشتری موردی
مصرفی دولت مقروض ملت مغضوب
کاسب حرمت داره اونکه
می دوشتت فرضش این که گاوی
گف نقشت چیه رهبری؟
گفتم نه بگو آقای راوی
چش و چالا از اسید له
بی چاره ای تو مسیر مه
مشق مرگ
اشک سرد
رد خون
رو ورق
پشت و نگاه نکن برنگردد
فامیلِ من بود اونکه بی جون تا
پشت میله رفت و سر داد
تکلیف ما با خون
تو خیابون روشن میشه سردار
نه بدن ضعیف از تزریق
نه بزل و بخشش نه تشویق
تاریخ بخونه شرح حال مارو
فردا بشنون این واژه هارو
بشمار بدن بچه های بی کفن تو نیزار و
بشمار صدای کارگر عزادار و
بشمار گلوی بریده ی بی آزارو
زندگی رو طناب ته دره
،این و اونو بنداز تا نیفتی
نصف دیگش زیر حلقه ی دار و
بن بست بند و شام
مفتی
فردا این جوجه زامبیا
از تخم درآن شاخن برات
دستت داره دور گردنا
اون دستا هم دارن برات
لیلامون بورسیه نداشت پدرش بیزنس روسیه نداشت
از جیب ضعفا نزد و
خونه، مغازه و ارثیه نذاشت
محسن ما کف دستش
خطخطی بود از کار بی دستکش
لات اجاره ای نبود خم شه
کرنش کنه پیش هر ...
پیشکشتون سینه سوراخ استخونا شکسته سر گل داد
سیرِ به وقتش سهمشو خورد و
گشنه رو جلو گلوله هل داد
سهم من یه باک بنزین
شانس مدد کنه خرجی بدنت
صبر من تیز رو
زمین ضعیف کشتی خوردی زدنت
دستامون که گره شه به
هم سیل بغض ملت رها شه
حکم ماس مشت اول انگشت وسط روی ماشه
نه وقت مرثیه پرثیه هست تفنگ
و پر کن از خشم کوچه
ترک تحصیل
تلخ تحقیر
طرد و تحمیل
بی صدا هارو صدا کن
پاپتی های بی فردارو
بشمار مغز پاشیده زیر پارو
بشمار گوله تو گلبرگ پویارو
بشمار
خالد احمد رضا
آرین آرمین حسام
ساسان نیکتا امیر پژمان میلاد عدنان
مجبتی حسن کاوه یونس جبار سلمان عمران
پر کینه ام رو به
دشمنی که غاصب آزادی منه
مسئله ی اول و آخر عدالت، آزادی میهنه

Beshmar

Verse 1: Poetry is not the cure, it is a poisonous concoction
Of sadness, anger, and madness, a doomed elixir.
He who yields his head and essence, it is clear,
Is a rotten crop from a corrupt farm.
The work of a handful of crooks, what is the purpose?
Suspicious officials, alluring lovers, and questionable clients.
A profligate government and an embittered nation.
The merchant deserves respect, for he
Milks you, assuming you are a cow.
I was asked, "What is your role, O leader?"
I said, "Not I, speak to Mr. Narrator."
Bright-eyed from acid, you are
A wretch in my path
Of mortal exercise.
Cold tears,
A trail of blood,
On parchment,
Don't look back, it will not turn.
He who died in prison was my kin,
Bereft of life, he gave up his soul.
Our duty lies in the blood
Which stains the streets, O general.
Not in a weakened body from injections,
Nor in empty promises or incentives.
History will record our plight.
Let them hear these words tomorrow:
Count the bodies of the slain in the reeds,
Count the cries of the grieving workers,
Count the throats slit of the innocent.
Life is a tightrope over an abyss,
Throw others down so you won't fall.
The other half hangs from the gallows,
A dead end of bread and
Prayer, for free.
Tomorrow, this zombie spawn,
Will hatch from their eggs and peck at you.
Your hands are around their necks,
And their hands are around yours.
Our Leila was not a scholarship student; her father was not a businessman in Russia.
She did not take from the pockets of the poor,
And she left no inheritance of houses, shops, or wealth.
The palms of our Mohsen
Were scarred from work without gloves.
He was not a hired thug to bow
Or grovel before every ...
We offer you a perforated chest, broken bones, and a head that gave birth to a flower.
He ate his fair share in due time,
And pushed the hungry into the path of bullets.
My share is a tank of gasoline,
May fortune cover the cost of your body.
My patience is razor-sharp,
The ground is weak, and your offense has knocked you down.
When our hands are joined,
The flood of the nation's sorrow will be released.
Our decree is a clenched fist, a middle finger on the trigger.
This is no time for laments or elegies; there is a rifle,
And fill the streets with rage.
School dropout,
Bitter humiliation.
Rejection and imposition,
Give a voice to the silenced.
The faceless puppets.
Count the brains splattered under their boots,
Count the bullets in Pouya's petals.
Count
Khaled, Ahmad, Reza,
Arin, Arman, Hosam,
Sasan, Nikta, Amir, Pejman, Milad, Ednan,
Mojtaba, Hassan, Kaveh, Younes, Jabar, Salman, Omran.
I am filled with hatred for
The enemy who usurped my freedom.
The first and last issue is justice, freedom for my country.