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4 In This Dead-End Road Ahmad Shamlou They sniff your breath lest you have said: I love you. They sniff your heart— (such strange times, my sweet) and they flog love at every checkpoint. We must hide love in the backroom. In the cold of this dead-end crooked road they stoke their pyres with our poems and songs. Don’t risk thinking, for these are strange times, my sweet. The man who beats at the door in the nadir of night, has come to kill the lamp. We must hide light in the backroom. Those are butchers in passageways with their chopping blocks and bloodied cleavers. (such strange times, my sweet) They hack off smiles from faces and songs from mouths. We must hide pleasure in the backroom. 5 Canaries are barbequed on flames of lilies and jasmines . . . (such strange times, my sweet) and the devil, drunk on victory, feasts at the table set for our wake. We must hide God in the back room. Translated by Sholeh Wolpé ...

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