A Poem I Could Not Translate 

A Poem I Could NOT Translate

By: John Kazerooni

Once, a friend asked me to translate a famous poem — "Mother’s Heart" by Iraj Mirza, a poem inspired by an old French story.

I accepted the task with confidence. At first, I thought translation was only a matter of words. I opened dictionaries, wrote notes, and began to move the lines from one language into another. I worked for days, then nights, then weeks, then months. But something was always missing. The meaning was there, but the beauty was not. The words were correct, but the feeling was gone. The poem no longer breathed. I tried again and again, searching for softer words, gentler expressions, a rhythm that could carry the heart. Still, every version felt weak — like a shadow of something alive.

Finally, I understood a difficult truth: The poem was stronger than my words.

I called my friend and said, “I cannot translate it. I am only a storyteller. I do not have the language to carry such beauty. I feel humbled by the power of the poet.” He listened quietly and then said, “If you cannot translate it, then tell its story.” So I did.

-----------My Story----------

Once upon a time, in a quiet town, there lived a simple family — a mother, a father, and their only son. They did not have much in this world, but they had him. And to them, he was everything. They worked hard and lived simply. They gave up comfort so he could have opportunity. They sacrificed their health, their rest, their dreams, and the small pleasures of life to make sure their son would grow happy and successful. 

They never complained. Love rarely does. And the boy grew. He earned degrees. He built a future. He learned how to succeed in the world. But somewhere along the way, he learned everything except gratitude. He understood achievement, but not sacrifice. He knew ambition, but not tenderness.

Then he fell in love. He married and built a life not far from his parents. At first, he visited often. Then less. Then only when necessary. Slowly, his world became smaller — centered only around his wife.

He loved her deeply. Her happiness became his peace. Her sadness became his burden. But she was never content. Some days she would lie in bed and cry for hours, turning her face away, lost in her sorrow. One day she worried about money. Another day about clothes. Another day about her work, her future. Each worry replaced the last. Each sadness asked for attention. Each sorrow demanded proof of his love.

He tried everything — gifts, comfort, promises, patience. Still, her heart asked for more.

One day, exhausted and desperate, he asked, “What can I do to make you truly happy? Tell me anything. I will do it.” She looked at him and said quietly, “If you truly love me, bring me your mother’s heart — warm and still beating. Then I will know your love is real.”

Love, when blind, becomes dangerous.

The son did not hesitate. He ran to his mother’s home. She welcomed him, as always, with warmth and trust. What happened next belonged not to reason, but to madness.

Soon he was running through the streets, holding the heart that had loved him since before he was born. He ran faster than he ever had. The sun beat down on the road, his breath came in short gasps, and every step felt heavier than the last. Dust rose from the street as he stumbled over stones, nearly losing his balance several times. His knees scraped the ground once, his palms tore against the rough pavement, but he could not slow down. Each second counted. Each heartbeat in the heart he carried was a warning, a plea, a life in his hands. He whispered to himself, “She wanted it warm… it must still be beating.” At one point, he tripped and fell hard. Pain shot through his knee and elbows. He gritted his teeth, but the tears in his hands made it almost impossible to hold the heart steady.

For a moment, everything was silent. Then, from the heart in his hands, a trembling voice rose: “My dearest son! Are you hurt? Did you fall? Oh my dear child…Did you scratch your hands? Is your knee bleeding? Let me see… are you in pain? I cannot see you, but I feel your fall. May nothing happen to you. Even a scratch, even a small mark on your skin — I would bear it all a thousand times to spare you the slightest pain.”

Even torn from her body, her love was alive. A mother’s heart does not know how to stop loving.

He delivered the heart. He proved his devotion.

But the story did not end. His wife was not happier. Her worries did not disappear. Her sorrow did not fade. She still cried. She still complained. Her emptiness remained, and no peace entered their home. Because no sacrifice is enough for a love that feeds on proof. And no life finds happiness when love is replaced by possession.

That was the truth hidden in the poem.

Later, I understood why I could not translate it. Some poems are not made of words alone. They are made of sacrifice. Of sleepless nights. Of years given quietly, without witness. Some emotions cannot be carried across languages. They must be carried through stories. They must be felt. 

And perhaps the poem is not only about a mother. Perhaps it is about us. How easily we forget the hands that lifted us. How quickly we chase the love that demands proof. How often we ignore the love that asks for nothing. Because somewhere, in silence, there is always a heart that beats for us — quietly, endlessly, without condition.

And it still whispers: My child, are you safe?

And yet, we spend our lives proving our love to those who doubt us, while forgetting the one who never did.

--------------Original Poem by Iraj Mirza---------------

داد معشوقه به عاشق پیغام

که کُند مادرِ تو با من جنگ

هرکجا بیندم از دور، کُند

چهره پرچین و جبین پُر آژنگ

با نگاهِ غضب‌آلود زند

بر دلِ نازکِ من تیرِ خدنگ

مادرِ سنگ‌دلت تا زنده است

شهدِ در کامِ من و توست شرنگ

نشود تا تو از این غُصه رها

تا نسازی هدفِ تیر و تفنگ

گر تو خواهی که وصالم برسی

باید آری جهتِ من به درنگ

قلبِ مادرت را برای من

یک‌سره کُشته و در میانِ چنگ

عاشقِ بی‌خِردِ ناهنجار

نه، بل آن فاسقِ بی‌عصمت و ننگ

حُرمتِ مادری از یاد ببرد

مست از باده و دیوانه ز بنگ

رفت و درید میانِ سینه

شد قدش از ره کین همچو کمان

جگرِ مادرِ خود را برداشت

قصدِ رفتن بنمود تیز و دمان

از قضا خورد دمِ در به زمین

و اندکی رنجه شد او را آرنج

آن جگر افتاد بر روی زمین

اندکی گشت ز گِل تیره و رنگ

آن جگر ناله برآورد که: وای!

مبادا که شود پای پسرم کُند و لنگ!

Click on the link https://sites.google.com/view/johnkaz to explore Tapestry of My Thoughts

Medium Readers

Click on the link https://medium.com/@iselfschooling to explore Tapestry of My Thoughts