NAZIM HIKMET

POEMS TRANSLATED BY
NILFER MIZANOLU REDDY

Bare Feet
The Pupils of the Hungry Ones
The Song of the Sun Drinkers
A Tale of Separation
Testament
Prison Letters: Istanbul
Bitkiler Ipeklisinden
Before the Time Runs Out, My Rose
To Asian and African Writers
From the Epic of the National Independence Struggle
The Multitudes
1918-1919: The Story of the Black Snake
The Month of August: Our Women
Blue-Eyed Giant, Tiny Woman and Honeysuckle
To Paul Robeson
My Idea of a Sailor
To my Uncle
To my Martyred Uncle
My own Uncle
To my Counctry
For my Martyred Uncle
For my Martyred Uncle- 2
Samiyes Cat
The Youth
[Untitled 2 poems]
In Five Lines
 YALNAYAK

BARE FEET

The sun
over our heads
a turban of fire.
parched earth
chariks* for our bare feet
Beside us
a peasant
more dead than his old mule he's not beside
us
he's
in our boiling blood. No wrap on the
shoulders
no whip in hand
no horse, no cart
no gendarmes
we passed through
villages like bear-dens
muddy towns
bald mountains.
That's how we traveled in that land! We listened
to the sound of stony fields in the watery eyes
of the old oxen. We saw that
the earth does not yield
its golden ears of grain
to black ploughs.
We didn't travel as if in a dream
No,
we reached one rubbish heap after another. That's how we
traveled in that land.
We know
what that land
is longing for.
This longing
is made up
like a materialist's mind, this longing
is for matter

matter!

Low-lying

*
charik simple peasant shoe made of raw hide
hovels
with dour faades
are lined up
in streets like mole holes.
Jinn-eyed
pigeon-tongued
wearers of fine cotton turbans sit cross-legged
in stores.
In front of them
peasants with chapped soles
in rawhide chariks.
A burly gendarme
drags a couple
who committed
adultery in a field.
In the coffee house
the master dervish
hankering after the novice intones deeply
"Lahavle-ve-la"
spits on the faces
of the couple.
Over there
in this sleepy squalid run-down town
love is not romantic
Its soul is hungry
for two lively words: STEAM
ELECTRICITY!

If you're not blind

you can see that
this soil-faced farmhand
and his sunken-chested son
- a survivor of the Caucasus front - have the
fingernails of the tax collector
clawing at their heads
he wants to be buried right here
with his daughter
his wife
his oxcart
clutching the last clump of his soil
and die with them
right here
and be buried
with them.

The mountains and the fields are longing passionately like a desiring
woman
for machines
with souls of steam
every cog with 1000 horsepower becoming iron and ploughing the earth like
churning water!

O gentlemen
with yellow glass bellies
that gurgle like hookahs
O gentlemen
riding in your three-horse carriages
sighing la Pierre Loti
to deaf
noseless
blind
peasants gentlemen
with bridled mouths
and hands
holding pens!
We're sick and tired of your lying tales.
From now on
you must get
into your
heads:
Peasants are longing for land
and the land
is longing for machines!

1922

ACLARIN GOZBEBEKLERI

THE PUPILS OF THE HUNGRY ONES

Not a few
not five or ten thirty million
hungry ones are ours!

They belong
to us!
We belong
 to them!
The waves belong
to the sea!
The sea belongs
to the waves!
Not a few
not five or ten
30,000,000
30,000,000!

Hungry ones A lined up hungry ones

Neither men, nor women, nor boys, nor girls
skinny stunted
crooked trees with crooked branches!
Neither men, nor women, nor boys, nor girls
Hungry ones all lined up hungry ones!

They are
the walking scraps
of those parched lands!
Some of them
are carrying their bloated bellies
that are knocking against their bony knees!
Some of them
nothing but skin only their eyes
are living!

From far
all black protrusions
stretch point by point
like a vein piercing nail
of a horseshoe
mad pupils,
pupils!
Ah those
those who have such a pain,
those
who stare in such a way
Our pain is endless!
endless!
endless!
But
our beliefs cannot be done away with!
Our breasts are hard as iron
because our pain is
30,000,000
 mad pupils!
Pupils!
0, man!
you listen
to me
with your mouth wide open!
Perhaps behind my back
you call me
"insane"
for howling
my heart out!
If you are
a goose
like the others
if you can't grasp the meaning of my words
Just look at my eyes;
they are:
Mad pupils
Pupils!

1922

GUNESI ICENLERIN TURKUSU

THE SONG OF THE SUN DRINKERS

This is a song:
the song of those
who drink the sun in earthen bowls!
This is a tress:
a tress of flame!
it is twisting;
it is burning like a bloody crimson torch
on the dark brows of
the heroes with bare copper feet!
I too saw those heroes,
I too braided that tress,
I too crossed with them
the bridge
going to the sun!
I too drank the sun in earthen bowls.
I too sang that song!
Our hearts took their speed from the earth
we stretched ourselves
 by tearing the mouths
of golden-maned lions!
We sprang:
we rode the lightning wind!
The eagles
swooping
from the cliffs
flapped light-gilded wings.
Flame-wristed riders whipped
prancing horses!

There is a raid on
a raid to the sun!
We will conquer the sun
the conquest of the sun is near!

Those who cry in their houses

and carry their tears
like a heavy chain
around their necks
should not travel
with us!

Those who live on the crust of their hearts

should not follow us!
Here:
millions of red hearts are burning
in the fire
that fell
from the sun!
You too
take your heart out from your rib cage;
hurl it
into the fire
that fell from the sun
throw your heart beside our hearts!

There is a raid on
a raid to the sun!
We will conquer the sun
the conquest of the sun is near!

We were born from earth, fire, water, iron!

Our wives nurse our babies with the sun,
our copper beards smell of the earth!
Our joy is hot!
 hot like blood,
hot like the "moment"
that sizzles
in the dreams of young men
We hook our ladders to the stars
stepping on the heads of our dead
we rise
toward the sun!
Those who died
died fighting;
they are buried in the sun.
We have no time for mourning.

There is a raid on
a raid to the sun!
We will conquer the sun
the conquest of the sun is near!

Red vineyards of blood-speckled grapes are smoky!

Heavy brick chimneys
twisting,
belching!
The one at the head -
He who commands - yells!
This voice!
the force of this voice
this force
that blinds the wounded hungry wolves,
this force
makes them stop
in their tracks!
Order us to die
order!
We are drinking the sun in your voice!
We are getting high,
getting high!...
On the smoky curtain of blazing horizons
riders with sky-ripping lances are running!

There is a raid on
a raid to the sun!
We will conquer the sun
the conquest of the sun is near!

The earth is copper

the sky is copper.
Sing out the song of the sun drinkers,
Sing out
Let us all sing out!

1924

BIR AYRILIS HIKAYESI

A TALE OF SEPARATION
The man said to the woman:
"I love you;
and how,
Like squeezing my heart in my palms
like something made of glass
breaking it
madly
until my fingers bleed."

The man said to the woman:

"I love you;
and how
miles and miles deep
miles and miles wide
one hundred percent, five hundred percent,
infinity percent."

The woman said to the man:

"I have looked
with my lips, with my heart, with my head;
with love, with fear, with reverence
at your lips, your heart, your head
Whatever I am uttering now
you have taught me like a whisper in the dark...
And now
I know:
That the earth
- like a mother with a sunny face
has suckled her last most beautiful child...
But what can I do?
my hair is entangled
with the fingers of the dying one
I cannot free
my head!
You have to keep walking
after looking into the eyes
of the newborn infant...
You
have to keep walking,
leaving me behind..."

The woman became silent.

THEY EMBRACED

A book fell to the ground ...

A window was shut ...

THEY PARTED ...

1932
VASIYET

TESTAMENT

Comrades, if I don't have a chance to see that day,

that is if I die before the liberation,
take my body
bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia.

On one of my sides lies farmhand Osman

shot by Hasan Beys hired gun
on my other side martyr Aye
who died shortly after giving birth on the earth in the rye field.

Let tractors and songs go by the road down the cemetery,

in the light of dawn young people and the smell of burning gasoline,
the fields belong to everyone, the canals are full of water, no
drought, no fear of gendarmes.

Of course we won't hear these songs,

the dead lie stretched under the earth,
the dead decay like black branches,
under the earth deaf, dumb and blind.

But I had sung these songs

before they were made up,
I had smelled the burning gasoline
even before the tractors were designed.

As to my silent neighbors,
martyr Aye and farmhand Osman
they bore that great longing all their lives
perhaps without even noticing.

Comrades, if I die before that day,

- it looks like it may happen -
bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia
and if it is possible,
if there is a plane tree over me
no need for a piece of stone, or anything at all...

April 27, 1953

Barhiva Sanatorium
 PRISON LETTERS: ISTANBUL

1
My darling,
heads forward. eyes open as far as one
can see,
red glow of burning cities,
trampled crops
endless stamping of
feet
go on and on.
And people are slaughtered
more easily
more smoothly
in larger numbers
than the trees and the calves.
My darling,
In the din of stamping feet, in this massacre
I happened to lose my freedom, my daily bread
and you.
yet in the midst of hunger, darkness and screams
I never lost my faith for the days to come
that would knock on our door with sunny hands.

I am so happy I was born into this world,

I love its earth, its light, its struggle and its bread.
Even if I know the earth's circumference to the last
centimeter
and not ignorant of its toy-like size next to the sun,
I am still awed by the immensity of this world.
I would have liked to wander around the world
to see the fish, the fruits and the stars
I had never seen before.
But I took a trip to Europe
only in books and in pictures
I've never received a single letter
with a blue stamp postmarked in Asia.
Me and our neighborhood grocer,
we are both totally unknown in
America.
But who cares!
From China to Spain, from the Cape of Good Hope to
Alaska
In every sea mile and every kilometer I have friends
and enemies.
Friends to whom I've never said Hello,
but we are willing to die for the same bread, the same
freedom
and longing.
 And enemies who thirst for my blood
as I thirst tor theirs.
My strength comes,
from not being alone in this big world.
The world and its people are neither the secrets of my
heart
nor the enigmas of my learning.
Saving my head from exclamation and question
marks,
I took my place
in the great struggle
freely and without worry.
If I am not in this place
just you and the earth
are not enough for me.
Although you are very beautiful
and the earth is warm and lovely.

3
I love my country
I have swung on its plane trees,
I was locked up in its jails.
But nothing can take my blues away
like the songs and tobacco of my country.
My country
Bedreddin, Sinan, Yunus Emre and Sakarya
Lead covered domes and factory chimneys
are the work of my people; their laughter
under their droopy moustaches seems hidden even
from themselves.
My country:
My country is vast
wandering from place to place it seems endless.
Edirne, Izmir, Ulukla, Mara, Trabzon, Erzurum
I know the highlands of Erzurum only from songs,
I am ashamed that Ive never crossed the Taurus
mountains,
to go southward
to meet the cotton pickers.
My country:
camels, trains, Ford cars, and sickly donkeys,
poplars
willows
and the red earth.
My country:
Pine forests and spring waters,
and the trout that loves the lakes in the mountains;
a one pounder, scaleless, silver-skinned with red
specks
 swims in Bolus lake Abant.
My country:
Goats in the plains of Ankara
their long silky light brown hair glistening.
Oily big hazelnuts of Giresun.
Apples of Amasya with scented red cheeks,
olives
figs
melons
and bunches and bunches
of grapes of many colors
and then the black wooden plough
then the black oxen
then my hard-working, honest and brave people
who are ready to welcome everything
progressive, beautiful and good
with the joyful enthusiasm of children
half hungry, half full,
half-slave
BITKILER IPEKLISINDEN
Plants from silken soft to bushy branching ones
animals from furry to scaly
houses from rough hair-tents to concrete buildings
machines from airplanes to electric shavers
and also the seas and the water in a glass
and the stars
and the sleeping mountains
and the human being mingled with everything everywhere
that's sweat on the brow
lies in the books
truth lies
friend foe
longing joy sorrow
I passed through the crowd
with the crowd that was passing through.

August 14, 1959

HENUZ VAKIT VARKEN GULUM

BEFORE THE TIME RUNS OUT, MY ROSE

Before the time runs out, my rose,

before Paris is burned down and destroyed,
before the time runs out, my rose,
and my heart is still on its branch,
I, one night, one of these May nights,
holding you against the wall in Quai Voltaire,
must kiss you on the lips
then turning our faces toward Notre Dame
we must gaze at its rose window
my rose, suddenly you must embrace me,
with fear, surprise and happiness,
sobbing silently,
the stars too must pour
mixed with a drizzling rain.
Before the time runs out, my rose,
before Paris is burned down and destroyed,
before the time runs out, my rose,
and my heart is still on its branch,
In this night of May
we must pass by the quay
under the willows, my rose,
the weeping willows that are drenched.
I must tell you the most beautiful couple of words of Paris,
the loveliest and truest,
then whistling some airs
I must die of happiness
and we must have faith in human beings.

Up there stone houses

without ledges or recesses
stuck together
and their walls are all moonlight
and their windows straight up
are sleeping standing up
and on the shore across the Louvre
bathed in floodlights
our crystal palace
illuminated for us.

Before the time runs out, my rose,

Before Paris is burned and destroyed,
before the time runs out, my rose,
and my heart is still on its branch,
in this night of May on the quay we must sit
on the red barrels in front of the warehouses.
The canal across fades into darkness.
A barge is passing,
my rose, lets say hello,
lets say hello to the barge with the yellow cabin.
Is she on her way to Belgium or to Holland?
In the cabin door a woman with a white apron
is smiling sweetly.

Before the time runs out, my rose,

before Paris is burned down and destroyed,
before the time runs out, my rose...
People of Paris, people of Paris,
You mustn't let Paris be burned and destroyed...

May 13, 1958

ASYA-AFRIKA YAZARLARINA

TO ASIAN AND AFRICAN WRITERS

My brothers and my sisters
never mind my blond hair
I am an Asian
never mind my blue eyes
I am an African
where I come from trees don't cast shadows down below
just like the ones you have
where I come from the bread is in the jaws of the lion
and the dragons lie in front of the fountains
where I come from people die before reaching
the age of fifty
just like where you come from
never mind my blond hair
I am an Asian
never mind my blue eyes
I am an African
eighty percent of my people are illiterate
poems wander from mouth to mouth turning into songs
poems can become banners where I come from
just like the ones where you come from
my brothers and my sisters
our poems yoked to the skinny ox should be able to till the land
our poems knee deep in mud should enter the rice fields
our poems should be able to ask all the questions
our poems should be able to gather all the lights
our poems like the milestones
should be able to stand at the crossroads
see the approaching enemy before anyone else
beat the tom-toms in the jungles
and until on this earth not a single slave country or slave
not a single atomic cloud remain
our poems should be able to give all they have
their minds, their souls and their lives
for the great freedom.

January 22, 1962

Moscow
 FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONAL
INDEPENDENCE STRUGGLE

ONLAR

THE MULTITUDES
Those who are as numerous as ants in the earth,
fish in the sea,
and birds in the air;
who are cowardly,
brave,
ignorant,
learned,
and child-like;
those who destroy
and create,
only their adventures are in our book.
Those who, deceived by the temptations of the traitor,
drop to the ground the flags they were holding,
and leaving the enemy in the battlefield
run away home,
those who draw their swords against scores of renegades,
who laugh like a green tree,
cry without reason,
and curse mother and wife,
only their adventures are in our book.

Iron
coal
and sugar
and red copper
and textiles
and love, cruelty and life
and all the branches of industry
and the sky
and the desert
and the blue ocean
and the gloomy river beds
and the ploughed soil and the cities
their fate changes one morning at dawn,
at dawn when from the edge of darkness
they press their heavy hands against the earth
and rise.
They are the wisest mirrors
reflecting the most colorful shapes.
In our century they were the victors, they were the vanquished.
A great deal was said about them
and about them
it was said:
they have nothing to lose but their chains.

KARAYILAN HIKAYESI

1918-1919

THE STORY OF BLACK SNAKE

We have seen fire and treason

We have endured
We have endured everywhere
We have endured in Izmir, Aydin
and Adana,
We have endured in Urfa, Mara and Antep.

The people of Antep are sharpshooters,

they can shoot a flying crane right in the eye,
a running rabbit on its hind leg.
They stand on their Arab horses
slender and tall like young green cypresses.

Antep is a hot place

Antep is a tough place
The people of Antep are sharpshooters
The people of Antep are brave.

Black Snake
before he became Black Snake
was a farmhand in the Antep villages.
Perhaps he was contented, or not contented,
he had no time to think about such things.

Black Snake
before he become Black Snake
used to live like a field mouse
and was as cowardly as a field mouse.
Bravery is possible only with horses, guns and land.
He did not possess horses or guns or land.
His neck was as thin as a twig
his head was enormous.

When the enemy entered Antep

the people of Antep
brought him down
from the pistachio tree
that was hiding his fear.

They put a horse under him

and a Mauser rifle
in his hand.

Antep is a tough place.

On the red rocks
green lizards roam.
In the air hot clouds
drift forward and backward.

The enemy held the hills,

the enemy had guns.
The people of Antep were held up
in the flat plain.
The enemy was pouring shrapnel
the enemy was tearing the earth from its roots.
The enemy held the hills

The blood of Antep flew.

The shelter of Black Snake
before he became Black Snake
was a rose bush in the fields.
This bush was so tiny
but his fear and his head were enormous
he lay flat with his face down
without putting a bullet in his rifle's barrel.

Antep is a hot place

Antep is a tough place
The people of Antep, are sharpshooters.
The people of Antep are brave.
But the enemy had guns
The die was cast,
the people of Antep
would abandon the flat plain to the enemy.
Before he became "Black Snake"
Black Snake couldn't care less
if Antep was given to the enemy until doomsday,
They had never taught him to think.
He lived on earth like a field mouse,
and was as cowardly as a field mouse.

His shelter was a rose bush,

He was lying flat under the rosebush.
From behind a white rock
a black snake
showed its head.
Its skin was glistening
its eyes redder than fire,
its tongue fork-shaped.
Suddenly a bullet
came and hit its head
the snake fell over motionless.

Black Snake
before he became Black Snake
seeing the end of the black snake
shouted at the top of his voice
the first thought of his life
And said:
"Heed a lesson, my crazy heart,
if death finds the black snake behind the white rock,
it can find you too even if you hide in an iron trunk."

And when he who had been

as cowardly as a field mouse
ran and sprang forward
the people of Antep were aroused
they followed him.
They beat the enemy on the hills.
And to him who had lived like a field mouse,
who had been as cowardly as a field mouse
they gave the name BLACK SNAKE.

Black Snake said: "Let's have a war.

Let's bring the fallen heads from Kilis roads,
Let's finish up the enemy wherever he is,
Shoot brave ones, shoot on our day of honor..."

This is the story we have heard

and put in the first chapter of our epic
just as it was told to us;
About Black Snake
whose fame lasted for years as the leader of his band
and the people of Antep
and Antep.

KADINLARIMIZ

1922 THE MONTH OF AUGUST

OUR WOMEN

The oxcarts were moving under the moonlight

the oxcarts were going toward Afyon via Akehir
the land seemed endless
the mountains were so far away,
it looked like the travelers
would never reach any place.

The oxcarts were moving with their solid oak wheels

and they
were the first wheels turning in the moonlight
Under the moonlight the oxen
were puny and short
as if they had come from a different tiny planet,
their sickly, broken horns twinkled
beneath their feet flowed
the earth,
the earth
and the earth.

The night was light and hot

and in the oxcarts the dark blue grenades
lay uncovered
And women
without letting each other know
were eyeing in the moonlight
the dead oxen and wheels left by the previous convoys
And women
our women:
with their terrible blessed hands
with their delicate small chins and enormous eyes
our mothers, our wives, our sweethearts
those who die as if they had never lived
and whose place at our table
comes after our oxen's,
those whom we abduct and then end up in prison,
those in wheat and tobacco fields,
in gathering wood and in markets
those harnessed to the black ploughs
those in stables
in the glimmer of shiny knives stuck in the ground
with their swaying heavy hips and cymbals
women belonging to us,
our women.

Now under the moonlight

following the oxcarts and cartridge boxes
they moved with the same lightness at heart
the same tired familiarity
as though they were pulling the amber spiked stalks
in the threshing fields
and inside the steel crates of shrapnel
scrawny-necked children were asleep
And the oxcarts under the moonlight
were going toward Afyon via Akehir.

BLUE-EYED GIANT, TINY WOMAN AND

HONEYSUCKLE

He was a blue-eyed giant.

He loved a tiny woman
who dreamed of a tiny house.
A house with a garden
where many-colored honeysuckle
bloomed.

The giant loved as a giant loves.

His hands were meant
for gigantic tasks.
He could neither build the frame
nor ring the bell
of a house with a garden
where many-colored honeysuckle
bloomed.
He was a blue-eyed giant.
He loved a tiny woman.
The woman was very, very tiny.
She was hungry for a life of ease,
she'd worn herself out on the giant's grand path.
Saying goodbye to the blue-eyed giant,
she took the arm of a wealthy midget
and entered the house with a garden
where many-colored honeysuckle
bloomed.

So now the blue-eyed giant can see

it cannot even be a tomb
for the great love of a giant,
that house with a garden
where many-colored honeysuckle
bloomed.
 TO PAUL ROBESON
They don't let us sing our songs, Robeson,
my songbird with the wings of an eagle,
my Black brother with the pearly smile,
they don't let us sing our songs.

They are afraid, Robeson,

afraid of the dawn,
afraid to see, to hear, to touch
afraid to cry like the rain washing a naked body,
afraid to laugh like sinking one's teeth into a hard quince.
They are afraid to love, to love like Ferhad2
(surely you too must have a Ferhad, Robeson,
what is his name?)

They are afraid of the seed, of the earth

and of the running water
afraid to remember the hand of a friend,
asking no discount, no commission, no interest
a hand that has never alighted
like a lively bird in the palms of their hands.
They are afraid of hope, Robeson, afraid of hope, hope!
They are afraid, my songbird with the wing of an eagle,
they are afraid of our songs, Robeson.

October 1949

MY IDEA OF A SAILOR

Steel hand, iron wrist, strong arm

and piercing eyes,
A broad chest and a sharp salute.
All we need is the rolling seas...

Copper faced, hot-blooded, full of life,

2
A legendary lover in Turkish folklore
A Turkish lad.
He's the peerless pearl of the seas.
That's my idea of a sailor.

December 3, 1914

DAYIMA

TO MY UNCLE

You did not die

You did not die
You're still living
You will always live
In the heart of your country.
SEHIT DAYIMA

TO MY MARTYRED UNCLE

My martyred uncle, don't lament

That you must be avenged
Be calm
Don't look at me and make me tremble
Yes, you will be avenged
You're the son of the martyrs
You will be avenged
You're the grandson of the Oguz.

BENIM DAYIM

MY OWN UNCLE

My uncle! My uncle! He was a great hero

He was the one
Who made my Turkish breast swell with pride
He showed me great feats of heroism
Always teaching me about great sacrifices
Showing the proper way
And suggesting the greatness
Of giving your life
For your country

1915
VATANA

TO MY COUNTRY

Ah my poor country
Why is she crying like this
Why because her children
Don't take good care of her

Son - If I don't take good care of you

I should not deserve to be a Turk
Look mother we're going
To die for the country
I'll go I'll die
I won't come back

Mother - Go my son go
Serve your country
Shed your blood
Give all that you have for her
Say goodbye to your betrothed, to your village
Say goodbye to all that you have

Son - Mother I am going

Give my regards to my father
Tell my beloved
Not to cry for me

March 8, 1915

SEHIT DAYIMA MABAT

FOR MY MARTYRED UNCLE

The skies will reverberate

To avenge you
The seas will roar
To avenge you
My martyred uncle, don't lament
Be calm
Don't look at me like that
And make me tremble
 FOR MY MARTYRED UNCLE - 2

He was the one who showed me the meaning of the Orient

He was the one who taught me the arts of the Turks
That's why I love my uncle
In my heart I always keep
The highest respect for him.

June 1915

SAMIYE'NIN KEDISI

SAMIYE'S CAT

Her eyes were green like the seas

Her white fur a heap of snow
Her mouth adorned with mother-of-pearl teeth
Her amorous gaze touched our souls

When we loved her she fooled us and ran away

When we caressed her she showed her claws
She had the pride of a woman
Lies poured out of her kohl-blackened eyes
GENCLIK

THE YOUTH
To My Father

Cry over the tombstones of your friends

For four years they were dying everywhere
Today with their sacred sentiments
The pitiful youth tells you to shut up

Write with sorrow the elegy of those

Who spilled their blood at the front
Raise your voice in these years of grief
For those who spilled their blood at the front

Look at Anadolu without a sigh of lament

Awaiting faithfully its final hour
The road of the sky-high mountains
Is covered with the bones and souls of brothers

Go cry on those desolate roads today

For four years they kept dying all over
Today with their sacred sentiments
When they say shut up to you... Shout! Ah youth!

Winter 1920, Kadikoy

The air is like strained honey

I went out hunting in the afternoon
I fell in love with a gazelle
Gazelles have black eyes
But my gazelle has green eyes
I dragged myself after her
spitting blood
Across from me opened the gate of Paradise

1949

You'll lie under the sun all naked

with your green eyes
I'll bend over you
I'll look at you
as if I am watching
the most amazing event of the universe

You'll put your arms around my neck

Your weight full of life around my neck
I'll taste immortality
From your bright red mouth

1949

IN FIVE LINES

To be able to defeat the lies

from mothers' lullabies to the newscaster's words,
the lies in the heart, in the book, in the street,
to understand, my love, that wonderful happiness,
to understand what is gone and what is to come.