Azadeh Razaghdoost
— The Figure Of The Soldier —

Esthetique du Mal


How red the rose that is soldier’s wounds

The wounds of many soldiers, the wounds of all

The soldiers that have fallen, red in blood

The soldier of time grown deathless in great size


A mountain in which no ease is ever found,

Unless indifference to deeper death

Is ease, stands in the dark, a shadow’s hill

And there the soldier of time has deathless rest.


Concentric circles of shadows, motionless,

of their own part, yet moving on the wind,

Form mystical convolutions in the sleep

Of time’s red soldier desyhless on his bed.


The shadows of his fellow ring him round

In the high night, the summer breathes for them

It’s fragance, a heavy somnolence, and for him,

For the soldier of time, it breathes a summer sleep,


In which his wound is good because life was.

No part of him was ever part of death.

A woman smoothes her forehead with her hand

And the soldier of time lies calm beneath that stroke


— by Wallace Stevens