A Man Beneath the Sky of Questions and Unanswered Windows
There was a man
with a lamp in his hand,
and before him stood a city
whose every window
was covered by heavy curtains.
He wondered
which angry god
he had stolen this lamp from.
Every morning,
at the office, among gray desks,
when the clock
was hammered into the wall
like a nail,
he would ask:
“Why?”
And his “why”
was like a stone
falling into the still water of a meeting,
its ripples reaching
the silent faces of those around him.
They would say:
“This is the rule.”
He looked at the rule
like a bird
measuring its cage
not by its bars,
but by its questions.
His voice
sometimes seemed like the voice of the cursed;
not because he could see the future,
but because
no one wanted
to hear
what he could see.
They would say:
“Everyone does it.”
And he would think to himself:
If everyone is asleep,
is waking up
an act of disrespect?
And perhaps
a spirit had lodged itself in his throat;
the same question
that no cup of hemlock
could silence.
At home,
sometimes his mother, his wife, or his friend
would say, with tearful eyes:
“My heart is broken.”
And he,
instead of a hand,
held a question in his hand.
He would lay words
on the table like cold coins,
drawing boundaries
between feeling, belief, truth,
and misunderstanding;
unaware that
sometimes
you cannot lead a person
out of darkness
with reason;
sometimes
some hearts do not open
to logic,
and some doors
have only one key:
an embrace.
Inside his mind
was an endless library;
shelves—
or perhaps cages—
reaching all the way to the ceiling,
filled with books
none of which had an ending.
Every thought
gave birth to another thought,
and every answer
carried within itself
a new question.
Perhaps he was another Sisyphus,
with a stone
not upon his shoulders,
but inside his head.
At night,
the city would fall silent,
but inside his mind
the lights would remain
turning on, one by one.
He walked between two mirrors;
in one,
he was right,
in the other,
perhaps the other was right.
And every time he tried
to pronounce the final judgment,
a new question
rose from the darkness.
Sometimes society
saw him as a difficult man;
sometimes arrogant,
sometimes stubborn,
sometimes as someone
who, for every road,
wanted a map
instead of taking a step.
His friends
would sometimes leave
the long debates
like weary travelers
stepping off a train
that had no destination.
And he could not understand
why some people
preferred to walk through the fog
rather than stop
and discuss
the shape of the fog.
But no one could see
what winter
was passing behind
that luminous brow.
He was not afraid of not knowing;
he was afraid of accepting something
whose truth
he had not yet been able
to measure.
The higher he lifted
the answer,
the closer
the sun of doubt
came to the wax of his wings.
He wanted the world
to have a name for every wound,
a reason for every injustice,
a root for every “must,”
and a lamp
for every truth.
But the world
was more like a forest
whose trees
did not know their own names.
One night,
he stood beside the window.
The moon
was like a piece of white bone
in the mouth of the sky.
For the first time,
he lowered the lamp.
Perhaps he had understood
that some darknesses
are not meant to be illuminated;
they are meant
to let us see one another.
He said to himself:
Perhaps not every road
is meant to lead to an answer;
some roads
exist only
to turn a person
into someone gentler.
The wind came,
pulled the curtain aside,
and for a moment
he saw the city—
a thousand windows,
a thousand lives,
a thousand imperfect truths.
And he understood
that perhaps the question
is not always
who is right;
perhaps sometimes
the greatest question is:
When I am wrong,
can I still
stand beside you
with kindness?
مردی زیر آسمانِ پرسشها و پنجرههای بیپاسخ
مردی بود
،با چراغی در دست
و شهری در برابرش
که همۀ پنجرههایش
.پردههای ضخیم داشتند
حیران بود
که این چراغ را
از کدام خدای خشمگین
.ربوده است
،هر صبح
،در اداره، میان میزهای خاکستری
وقتی ساعت
،مثل میخی بر دیوار کوبیده میشد
:میپرسید
\"چرا؟\"
و \"چرا\"ی او
مثل سنگی بود
که به آبِ آرامِ جلسه میافتاد
و دایرههایش
.تا صورتهای خاموشِ آدمها میرسید
:میگفتند
\".این قانون است\"
او به قانون نگاه میکرد
مثل پرندهای که
،قفس را نه با میله
.که با پرسش میسنجد
صدایش
گاهی به صدای نفرینشدهای میمانست؛
،نه از آن رو که آینده را میدید
بلکه چون
هیچکس دوست نداشت
آنچه را میدید
.بشنود
:میگفتند
\".همه همین کار را میکنند\"
:و او در دل میاندیشید
،اگر همه در خواب باشند
آیا بیداری
بیاحترامی است؟
و شاید
روحی در گلویش مانده بود؛
همان پرسشی
که هیچ جام شوکرانی
نتوانست
.خاموشش کند
،در خانه
گاهی مادر یا همسر یا دوستش
:با چشمانی خیس میگفت
\".دلم شکست\"
و او
،به جای دست
.سؤالی در دست داشت
کلمات را
مثل سکههایی سرد
،روی میز میچید
میان احساس، باور، حقیقت
و سوءتفاهم
مرز میکشید؛
غافل از اینکه
گاهی
آدمی را نمیشود
با دلیل
از تاریکی بیرون آورد؛
گاهی
بعضی قلبها
،با منطق باز نمیشوند
و بعضی درها
کلیدشان
.فقط یک آغوش است
در ذهنش
کتابخانهای بیانتها بود؛
،قفسههایی
،یا شاید قفسهایی
،تا سقف
پر از کتابهایی
.که هیچکدام پایان نداشتند
هر اندیشه
،اندیشهای دیگر میزایید
هر پاسخ
در شکم خود
.پرسشی تازه داشت
شاید سیزیفِ دیگری بود؛
،با سنگی نه بر شانه
.که در سر
،شب که میآمد
،شهر خاموش میشد
اما در سر او
.چراغها یکییکی روشن میماندند
او میان دو آینه راه میرفت؛
در یکی
،حق با او بود
در دیگری
.شاید حق با دیگری
و هر بار که میخواست
،آخرین حکم را صادر کند
سؤال تازهای
.از تاریکی سر برمیآورد
گاهی جامعه
او را مردی دشوار میدید؛
،گاهی مغرور
،گاهی لجوج
گاهی کسی که
برای هر جاده
به جای قدم
.نقشه میخواهد
دوستانش
گاهی از بحثهای طولانی
مثل مسافرانی خسته
.از قطاری بی مقصد پیاده میشدند
و او نمیفهمید
چرا بعضی آدمها
ترجیح میدهند
در مه قدم بزنند
تا اینکه بایستند
و دربارۀ شکل مه
.بحث کنند
اما هیچکس نمیدید
که پشت آن پیشانیِ روشن
.چه زمستانی میگذرد
او از ندانستن نمیترسید؛
از پذیرفتنِ چیزی میترسید
که هنوز نتوانسته بود
.درست بودنش را بسنجد
هرچه پاسخ را
،بالاتر میبرد
آفتابِ شک
به مومِ بالهایش
.نزدیکتر میشد
میخواست جهان
برای هر زخم
،نامی داشته باشد
برای هر بیعدالتی
،دلیلی
برای هر باید
،ریشهای
و برای هر حقیقت
.چراغی
اما جهان
بیشتر شبیه جنگلی بود
که درختهایش
.اسم خود را نمیدانستند
،یک شب
.کنار پنجره ایستاد
ماه
مثل تکهای استخوانِ سفید
.در دهانِ آسمان بود
برای نخستین بار
.چراغ را پایین آورد
شاید فهمیده بود
بعضی تاریکیها
برای روشن شدن نیستند؛
.برای دیدنِ دیگریاند
:با خود گفت
شاید همۀ راهها
برای رسیدن به پاسخ نیستند؛
بعضی راهها
فقط برای ایناند
که آدم را
.به انسانی آرامتر تبدیل کنند
،باد آمد
،پرده را کنار زد
و برای لحظهای
شهر را دید؛
،با هزار پنجره
،هزار زندگی
.هزار حقیقتِ ناقص
و فهمید
شاید مسئله این نیست
که همیشه حق با چه کسی است؛
شاید گاهی
بزرگترین پرسش
:این است
،وقتی حق با من نیست
آیا هنوز
میتوانم
با مهربانی
کنار تو بایستم؟
سهیل خداپرستی