if magic
a place of shadows
melting on the short grass patches

By Farhad Showghi

Translation Harry Roddy

 

If magic is obvious in the first place, then it’s elsewhere, this advantage being easily confused with hall lighting and immediately lost from sheer air. It’s possible we look to all sides, whereby we start outside all over again. Up to the right we see a wisp of cloud, like us here, in the situation that’s arisen. We move tea and fruit and what goes with it: Our visibility and gladly pomegranate seeds, questions about flowers and leafy green perhaps. And then sugar. Sugar as the only word in the middle of the garden. The bright gleam now comes from the sun up to the left. And finds the child that has my hands and for a while also a broadened range. Just then something darts by. A That there! further toward the front. Up to the passing time. In this situation that’s arisen.

 

 

A place of shadows. And once more the undersides of leaves, the distance from voice, a walk in that direction. Unweakened with cloud movement and father and son. And hair on the back of the hand: to have to bring forth with the lips what’s been eavesdropped close to the eye. Just now time wants yet to move from the feeling of fingers into tying the shoes, in order to pass. Speechlessness follows. Tarried under open skies. A biting-and-rustling should belong to it. A handful of cones, blue allium, lily leek. Piled up corn, still piston-like. We see that we can see the park. The damage to the tiled fountain. And further left: the unfamiliar with fruit, with tea in the niches and child’s play. The place of shadows. Still wants an audible sound. The point in time over the knuckle tips. Sounds like sun here so near the greenery. The thumbnail can easily change to tongue and back. Saliva glimmers. Looking becomes air of cypresses.

 

 

Melting on the short-grass patches, silence and a division of time are just called: Drenchedness with slaughtered hen. Like the surrounding village is already called, but hardly to be heard from the street. The long drive is an easy liaison with a stone wall, with looking and sitting. To which we’ve already deboarded. A lot of ground under the feet affirms the sun up to the knees. Passing clouds too, their remains at the back: The context with outer air, with gleaming and slaughtered hen. We now make a next movement. We have the waiting car. And certainly a shoulder. Instead of wilderness of rocks fringes and a temple-region.

 

From In verbrachter Zeit.  kookbooks, 2014.