Full Original Text

Gol Furush, Gol Furush, give me, pray, a stem

I see you standing on the steps,

Besides the swinging doors.

The day has just arisen,

The crowds they trudge to work.

With burdens on their shoulders,

With pain within their hearts.

“Is it asking much” you think,

“To buy from me one rose?”

To everyone who passes by,

You plead with silent face,

Your feet transfixed upon the slabs,

Your stool upon the rocks.

Your eyes alone, they leap the crags,

Of prospects here and there.

Not finding the rest, nor cool response,

You like the swallows fly,

To another place, if there be shade,

Where people may be found.

Gol Furush, Gol Furush, I love your purple blooms,

Of irises and clementines,

And yes, a rose or two.

They shimmer in the morning air,

Those few remaining drops,

Of dew that washed their faces pure,

The hour that they were cut.

“Oh! Watch and learn, and love, and live,

While you behold this dew!”

As people pass upon their rounds,

The sun climbs higher still.

Before their eyes, but not their thoughts,

The drop take leave and go,

And with them, thoughts of wooded glades,

Of blue-bells never felt.

Upon your face, the sweat appears,

Running off your hair.

There’s no one on the street right now,

They went inside to hide.

Gol Furush, Gol Furush, the marbled halls are still,

I see you in the reading rooms,

The station master’s porch.

Among the people queuing there,

With parcels in their hands,

You wander softly, as a dream,

In lands we wished were ours.

When you calmly meet each prospect,

(You face them one by one)

You ask them, with your gaze uprising,

“Who do you love, and always loved,

And what to tell them so?”

Those men, they turn away their face,

Clutching what they hold.

Look Out! The cat is coming now;

The guard he sees you now.

One moment you were here in peace,

As fog around the reeds.

A blast of air, an opened door,

And then the silence of the streets.

Gol Furush. Gol Furush, the noon has just begun!

Even-tide is hours away,

And all is bright and hot.

Although we veil our faces,

Our flowers must be displayed;

They suffer and they slowly wilt,

Although you tend them well.

Along the open highways,

Where drivers sometimes rest,

You ask them, without flinching,

The age-old question now.

“What token of love will you carry,

Over the barren, gravel roads?”

A few sweep up a handful,

And rip off half the stems,

To place them on the dashboard,

Among the driver’s shrines.

Sometimes there’s a thoughtful pause,

A gaze at distant lands,

Before the rose is taken,

And flower and heart fly off.

Gol Furush, Gol Furush, the crowds are back again,

The marketplace is bursting now,

There’s barely room to turn.

Another hour, another step,

Another crowd to reach

But naught has changed,

The flow of life, its burdens roll on still.

The people run this way and that,

Pursuing and pursued,

Driven by they know not what,

or chasing dreams of ash.

Your heart is strong and resolute,

As you glide among the throngs;

Less so your last remaining blooms,

From sun, and dust, and scorn.

“Buy this flower, even now

To know how short are days!”

All at once the tray is clean,

The last flower’s sold and gone.

A few remaining coppers,

A wife’s reminding prod,

Are all it takes to end the day

And start the long walk home.

Gol Furush, Gol Furush, I’ve seen you everywhere,

At nameless country crossroads,

In busy market squares.

I’ve heard your voice oft calling,

As one of Asia’s doves,

For doves are found from coast to coast,

No matter how they call.

I’ve seen you standing quietly,

Beside the roaring foam,

Of people flowing here and there,

Not knowing where they pass.

“What is it that you want,

Observer of the doves?”

As I live, may you prosper;

When I die, may you lay down a flower

For me somewhere;

Finally, may we meet in that land,

Of which you spoke.