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خالى - آلبوم ص شاهین نجفی
Music: Shahin Najafi
Arrangement: Majid Kazemi
Lyrics: Shahin Najafi
Cover: Ali Baghban
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Khali (Empty)
The alley was empty, empty alley
without you devoid of any sense or dream
my soul became lost (Bakeri) for being far away from you
Endeavor (Hemat) with this yellow northerner
Twenty years is not a lot, it’s a man's lifetime
with black bandana on your light green eyes
with a stolen single shoe of my mosque-goer’s pair
run away, run away, run away, you will die
Maryam sat down so that the alley doesn’t get bloody from fear
with a white veil (chador) and a flower from the broken jasmine
Saeed was burnt so red
we became fragmented, proliferated fragments
With leftover installments we were chanting slogans
that man came with radiant and suspicious laughter
that man who was good and was making pregnant
we were aborted from narcotized mothers
We, the bright generation that got burnt out to the depth of the street
we, rabid from book so as to bite the alley
a bomb was blasted beside the school
the filthy Mr. Nourbakhsh, that Allahu Akbar Chanter principal
The clear message of confinement was in your bruised eye Masoud
let another red twenty years
with a bitter smell of ripped foot from prison
together lets deliciously crack the brain of that appointed lawyer
Your mother washed so many dishes that she melted away
she saw your picture so much that she went blind
it’s a great sorrow the heap of expectation
you take the share of my wounds from your confinement
You, dry like a look in the depth of exile
more unjust than life in the face of death
do you still cry on your foot?
do you still die bit by bit with the news?
He fired so that you get summarized in yourself
Sir, there were so many “we” Sir
so many that they weren’t finishing no matter how many we killed
and history was blood poured from raised fury
no matter how much they were giving away, they weren’t finishing
skin, acid bedding
eye, the awaiting pit holes
“we” “bed, on the bed they were giving away the dead”
they are not finishing
those wounds were strange for us
my cigarette sucked his skin
I was an appointed officer and excused
death is not an honorable job, Sir
“we” “his childish bag was full of grudge”
this was how he grew up, fatherless
as if life for him is an absolute right
mother let him pass under the book, bitter
later his wife went insane and would write poems
“we” in his neighbourhood would urinate on police’s footprints
what flavors does riot have? Sir
salty, salty, salty
we, his mother…
commander save us, thorny commander
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