Mahmood Falaki was born in Iran in a city near the Caspian- sea (1951). He studied chemistry and the science of library in Iran. Years later he obtained his degree in German- Iran subject from the University of Humburg.


In Shah’s time he was jailed because of his political idea against that regime for 3 years. After Islamic revolution (79) he was released from prison and got his first poetry book published.


He worked in Open- University in Iran.


Due to the new Islamic regime having political idea and writing it in the form of poem is forbidden and increasingly difficult and dangerous as a result of this situation he fled out of the country by force and since 1986 he lives in Humburg.


His works includes: Novel-Lyric poem-narration-criticism of poems.


Nearly 19 books of these kinds are already published most in Persian and Germany and some of his poems are translated in English and Swedish.


Presently he works as a lecturer for Persian Language and Literature.









Rain is falling

I am passing the street with a punctured umbrella

Behind the red light

a woman passes her look from the line in my forehead

and dissolves in the street which has found the shape of rain

with green color.

The rain continues to fall

and the umbrella is no more with me:

It moves yonder,

my umbrella,

with the woman’s hands.




Dark Words


From the invisible forehead of the world

a mad man issues

with a big drum

which beats on our imagination

a stone is flapped

which compared to it water and grass

shows our uncouth shape of pain.

I ask not again:

„Why are we born?“

so that fatigue will not pour

from behind the history of the stone

over shining words.


Let’s be simple and light,

so that when you turn your eyes from the window,

the window will turn into the form of a song

for a moment when my sky is empty of its blue mood,

and I can learn the reason for my birth

in this manner.


But it is impossible:

in the absence of delightful melody of moon

our nocturnal


my non-accomplished journeys

beside the road

and the window disappears

and I

grow lonely

with stones of fatigue and crooked and dark words.


I hear a sound.

A mad man continues to

beat at our imagination

from the invisible forehead of the world.




Translated to English by M. Alexandrian