Biography: Taraneh Javanbakht was born in Iran. She received her B.Sc. degree in chemistry at the University of Shahid Beheshti
in 1996 and came to Paris in 1997 to complete her studies. She earned a M.Sc. in chemistry at the Pierre and Marie Curie
University in 1998 and a Ph.D. in chemistry at the same university in 2002. She did her second M.Sc. in biology at the
University of Quebec in Montreal in 2011. She has also literary activities. She writes poems, short stories, novels, plays
and scenarios in seven languages: English, French, Russian, Azari, Arabic, German and her mother tongue, Persian.

Her works have been published in various journals, magazines and anthologies around the world. Many critics and
reviews on her works have been published in the media.

 

 

 

The Charm Of Spring

 

I passed in a garden
with the gaits of the wind.
I saw the owner of garden
with the art of love
in the look of a rose.
The branches of all the
trees were ornamented with
the blossom of the apple.
Bravo, the art of the charm
of the spring. The green
velvet of the grass has
spread its skirt for seeing
the munificence in the
hearts of my companions.
Flowing with the joy, a pond
in the garden took the fishes
that song the love melodies to
the abode of dream. Bravo, the
art of the charm of the spring.

I heard the joy of love in
the clamour of hundred
swallows. Then I saw the
feast of the trees that had
the branches ornamented
with the blossoms of love.
They song together the
melody of unity: bravo
the art of the charm of
the spring.

 

 

 

The Broken Wing

 

The color of its wing is the sign
of freedom. Flew in the paradise
with other emigrants, in my long
reflection the wild pretty swan.
It was a captive for the bad hunters.
Its wing was bloody, it hurt by an
arrow, the sad broken wing. Groaning
of the pain, it fell in a vast lake. It
rained intensely. The tears of the sad
sky kissed its bloody sore. The swan
is in fact the nice country of pride.
I dream its flight again in the sky.

 

 

The Leaf That Never Falls

From the tree of life in autumn the leafs
have fallen on the ground: the red leaf
of love, the green leaf of youth, the yellow
leaf of happiness. The man looks at his
past and thinks that the time has taken
all it had given to him. Now he is alone,
old and sad. The time seems to him be
cruel as a magician that has taken out
of its magic hat the shrunk leafs of the
tree of life. The time tells him: "These
leafs that I've found were fallen on the
ground." Seeing this scene, the man thinks
that the sense of life is lost, but there
is still a leaf on the tree of life, the leaf
that never falls: the leaf of hope, the key
for opening the heavy padlock of his pains.

 

 

The Shore Of Silence

 

Grumbled again the tired wave of travel
in the charm of being in love with the
shore of silence. The reminiscences of
slavery were the bitter mysteries of its
seclusion. Finally in freedom it intended
not to like except the sad melodies. It
addressed the thirsty soil with its clamor:
"O! soil, my melodies for you became
the collisions of hope, my drops for you
the witnesses of life, I only demand you
to think alike, you became the quiet share
for my zenith."

The noble shore answered in this way:
"O! wave, pride of my stature, spectator
of my captivity, firmness of my body,
your breast is my sky, honour of the
mother sea, hero of waters! The years
this silence nestled in my heart. The
oppression of the brand of the sunshine,
acquaintance of my wound, the sky is not
any more a sympathetic friend for me,
the story of the stars is not in my mouth,
the captivity of earth became my bitter
narrative."