I
My only one in your last letter
You say: “My head is aching
my heart is bewildered.” you say: “If they hang you
If I lose you
I cannot live.” You will live my darling wife,
My memory will fade like black smoke in the wind. You will live, red-haired sister of my heart.
In the twentieth century mourning the dead
lasts but one year. Death...
A corpse swinging at the end of a rope, I cannot resign my heart
to such a death. But be assured my beloved
that if the hairy hand of the hangman ties a rope
around my neck, they will look in vain
into the blue eyes of Nazim to see fear. In the dim light of my last morning I will see my friends and you, and I will only
take to the grave
the sorrow of an unfinished song. My wife, my own
my tender-hearted bee
with eyes sweeter than honey! Why did I ever write you
The trial is only just starting
and a man’s head cannot be plucked like a turnip.
Don’t give it another thought. All this is a distant prospect, if you have some money
buy me flannel drawers: I have sciatic pains in my leg. And don’t forget
the wife of a prisoner
must always have cheerful thoughts.
II
The wind flows and passes,
The same cherry branch never swings twice in the same wind. On the tree the birds are singing: Wings want to fly.
The door is closed:
it has to be forced open. I want you:
Life should be beautiful like you, A friend, a beloved like you... I know, the banquet of misery
has not yet come to an end, But it will end.
III Kneeling I am looking at the earth
I am looking at the branches with their bright blue blossoms You are like the spring earth my beloved
I am looking at you. Lying on my back I see the sky
You are like spring, you are like the sky My beloved I see you.
At night, in the country, I built a fire, I touch the fire You are like a fire lit under the stars
I am among men, I love mankind I love action
I love thought I love my struggle
You are a human being inside my struggle my beloved I love you.
IV
Beyond description - they say - the misery of Istanbul, Starvation - they say - is reaping so many lives, Tuberculosis - they say is so widespread. Tiny little girls they say -
in back alleys, in movie houses. Bad news is coming from my distant home town: the city of honest, industrious, poor people
My real Istanbul. My darling, it is the place you live in, It is the city
I carry on my back, in my bag
Wherever I am exiled, wherever I am jailed, I bear in my heart like a sharp pain
caused by the loss of a child. It is the city
I carry in my eyes like your image. V It is nine o’clock
the bell rang on the square
the cell doors will be closing any minute. Prison lasted a little too long this time
eight years. To live is a hopeful job my beloved
To live: it’s just as serious as to love you To think of you is a beautiful
a hopeful thing... But hope does not satisfy me anymore I don’t want to listen to a song
I want to sing my own song.
Warm and lively
like blood rushing from a vein the South winds are blowing. Listen to the tunes
the pulse beats slower.
It must be snowing on top of Uludagh4 and the bears up there
on the reddened chestnut leaves
must be lost in a sweet and beautiful sleep. In the plain the willows must be undressing The silkworms will soon shut themselves in. Autumn will soon be over
The earth is about to fall sound asleep Another winter will pass
and we will warm ourselves up at the fire of our wrath
and of our sacred hope.
VII Our son is sick
His father is in jail
Your heavy head is resting on your tired hands We are at the same point, this world and ourselves. Men will carry men
From bad days to better days Our son will get well
His father will come out of jail
You will smile deep in your golden eyes
We are at the same point, this world and ourselves.
VIII The most beautiful ocean
is the one we have not yet seen, The most beautiful child
has not yet grown up. Our most beautiful days
are those we have not yet lived.
And the most beautiful things I would like to tell you I have not yet told.
4
IX
I saw you in my dream last night you lifted your head,
you looked at me with your amber eyes your moist lips were moving,
but I couldn’t hear your voice.
Somewhere in the dark night the clock strikes like bright news. I can hear eternity whispering in the air
“The Song of Memo”5 in my canary’s red cage, in a ploughed field
the noise of the growing seeds cracking in the earth, and the righteous uproar of a glorious crowd.
Your moist lips were moving
but I couldn’t hear your voice. I woke up swearing.
I had fallen asleep on my book. Among all these voices, didn’t I hear your voice too?
5
Memo was a “Robin Hood” who, with his band, robbed the rich to give to the poor. “The Song of Memo” is a folk song in his praise.