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عضو هیأت علمی دانشگاه علوم پزشکی فسا،مترجم،مؤلف،خوشنویس
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عضو هیأت علمی دانشگاه علوم پزشکی فسا،مترجم،مؤلف،خوشنویس
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زبان * خط * سخن * صفحه شخصی : ابوالقاسم آوند




What am I to say
From a colored woman"s prospective today
With my Brown skin
Dark eyes
Thrifty dreams
African American eyes

Feels like a hot breeze from Congo
Blowing my way
With echoes from the mountains
And whispers
Whispers
Manipulating my soul
To dance and sing
And listen to the drummers

Listen
Shhhhhhhhhhh

They are speaking to me
Can"t you hear?

Sending a message out to us sista"s
Us women of color
Us women of glory
And eternal everlasting

My ancestors look at us in discuss
With our chemical treated hair
Body exposed like we don"t care

And my back pressed up against the wall
With my belly sticking out
And my tears that stained my cheek
And my intelligence turned weak

Us colored women today, yes us colored women today

What"s next, they cut off the welfare checks
What"s new, sistas looking for something to do?
And who"s to say, we still gonna make more baba"s

Won"t even give us a job
Cause we belong to that African tribe

Won"t even love and respect our brother
Cause we all have the dark skin color

Don"t color me black; don"t call me a lady,
Don"t offer me fine wine, or a ride in your Mercedes

Don"t give me your heart, or your passionate love campaign
Don"t give me some other sister, worry to gain

Just give me truth, something pure and clean
Just give me respect like an African queen

 




موضوع مطلب :


چهارشنبه 92 دی 4 :: 10:46 صبح ::  نویسنده : ابوالقاسم آوند


A Poem for the Fortieth Day of Martyrdom - Arbaeen

        
Look at the heads atop the spears
and the eyes that are full of tears.
     
Husain has gone and his sister is alone,
and her lonely sight is so hard to bear.
It will touch so many hearts of stone
but her suffering, so few shall share.
     
The daughter of Fatimah is full of sorrow.
In her path, so many woes have been steered.
She doesn"t know what will happen tomorrow.
She hasn"t finished wiping her tears.
    
The world has seldom seen such a bold woman.
So courageous and without a spec of fear.
She is so strong, that she can"t be broken.
Even by her loved ones" heads, on the spears.
     
Her parents are Fatimah and Ali, none other,
and to the Prophet Muhammad, she is so dear.
But this day, she is without her brother.
And no comfort seems to be near.
      
The people present, do nothing but stare.
For the victims, everyone should shed tears.
For the Prophet"s progeny, doesn"t anyone care?
The indifference of these "Muslims" is so severe.
   
Don"t all the people present, understand,
the noble family of the Prophet, has no peers?
Everyone"s salvation is verily in their hands.
Why"re they being driven, to the verge of tears?
       
This lady is not afraid to loose her life.
She speaks out against cruelty, without fear.
To spread her brother"s message, she strives,
breaking everyone"s heart with her silent tears.
       
On hurting the innocent, the cruel are bent.
But these wicked plots fail and she perseveres.
She faces calamity with her spiritual strength.
She is anguished, but holds back her tears.
        
The tyrants wanted to crush the struggle
but it shall never end and also our tears.
Everyone is moved, on hearing her troubles.
Karbala is and will be remembered each year.
        
In the stormy seas we"ve not yet set ashore,
many evil minds would want to stop our tears.
But this mourning will continue, forever more,
with cries of Yaa Husain, ringing in our ears.
       
Ali Rizwan Shah
Arbaeen - 1416 AH






موضوع مطلب :


یکشنبه 92 دی 1 :: 9:9 صبح ::  نویسنده : ابوالقاسم آوند

 

"Hope" is the thing with feathers


"Hope" is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops-at all-

And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-

I"ve heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb-of Me. 

Emily Dickinson 

 




موضوع مطلب :


جمعه 92 آذر 29 :: 10:26 صبح ::  نویسنده : ابوالقاسم آوند


Life Is A Privilege

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Life is a privilege. Its youthful days
Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays.
To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire,
To feed with dreams the heart"s perpetual fire,
To thrill with virtuous passions, and to glow
With great ambitions - in one hour to know
The depths and heights of feeling - God! in truth,
How beautiful, how beautiful is youth!

Life is a privilege. Like some rare rose
The mysteries of the human mind unclose.
What marvels lie in the earth, and air, and sea!
What stores of knowledge wait our opening key!
What sunny roads of happiness lead out
Beyond the realms of indolence and doubt!
And what large pleasures smile upon and bless
The busy avenues of usefulness!

Life is a privilege. Thought the noontide fades
And shadows fall along the winding glades,
Though joy-blooms wither in the autumn air,
Yet the sweet scent of sympathy is there.
Pale sorrow leads us closer to our kind,
And in the serious hours of life we find
Depths in the souls of men which lend new worth
And majesty to this brief span of earth.

Life is a privilege. If some sad fate
Sends us alone to seek the exit gate,
If men forsake us and as shadows fall,
Still does the supreme privilege of all
Come in that reaching upward of the soul
To find the welcoming Presence at the goal,
And in the Knowledge that our feet have trod
Paths that led from, and must wind back, to God.

 

 

 




موضوع مطلب :


جمعه 92 آذر 29 :: 9:58 صبح ::  نویسنده : ابوالقاسم آوند