Since they are crumbling, turn on the radio,
The streets, dogs, god's all assets
Loosens out of our hands, spills out everything
We stop, like blood, frozen in a hymn
With sounds and broken nails
Freezes our madness, captains are at no ship,
None, since seas are enormous, dead ones large
A chilly moon is heard, cold
In solitude. Loneliness is the season,
Where ``flowers themselves bunch up.''
And times are at each other's throats, each thicker
Than the other
Tea times crack, memories relic,
Seep up dead bodies over white tables
And billiard tables, pale, disappear
And sunglasses are worn again
The pen squeaks stop, telephones are silent, the last stamps
Some things are missing, gentle, copper rust.
We who are remnants of a fall, we are men, women,
Stuffed deer, frightened, flow out.
And our half warmed fright remains; the sky is creatured
Sips its drink, stretches back
In its own glass,
A corpse, both deathless and dead; for it
A mere novelty, irresolute in its freedom, alone
An embalmed tale,
An there is another not dead,
Because if something like this is needed among us,
It weakends our exile.
From one to another what can move in these times?
When the fright moves for a loss: something
Darkening its waters slowly into a stone among us,
A lexicon of silence.
It is that thing, a bit of hate and
Petrified hair, both petrified in those flower shaped
Painless, endless, all of love in one.
That day of sudden disappearence without good, without suitcases,
Shadowy, but in that completely labyrinthe stop
With chilly hormones
One beauty topping one more beautiful than a third, but all understanding
Daly newspapers bulging with street screams,
All fished out of the same heart, tired,
disnatured, lazy, after long
Comings and goings, and cracked nails,
An image we built suddenly, a myth
That binds us whole in its laws.
We are dead. Dead ones gather themselves here.
Age thickens, tenses up, systems get prepared.
The bloody hours fall, the markets remain.
Blood. Generated of pain, blood of the obstinate what,
At those hours when our throats change tunes,
Those hours when things remain, things inside us
Remain the same, and insects, worriless,
Change spots; at those hours to become a little
And numberless gestures meet with their muds,
In succession, carings and defeats
And everything, suddenly everything,
Years, cold wishes, hell without fires
In those days of death in those undecorated rituals
Blood rises in piazzas
The most elementary lesson of birth and decay.
Whereas appearing, one day, palmless and without suitcases,
Shadowy, but in that completely labyrinthe stop,
All days, uneventful, tickets going to numberless spots:
Waters and sunglasses,
Slipping in tremor,
Slipping, unknowingly, and without finally caring,
Rid of dimensions, thinnings, helpless like a deer,
A stuffed deer, stumbling and shy, in drinks
Building, among leaves opening newly,
Building its love of nest and indifference.
We are unmade, and our lot is unmade. We just wear
Now, the unmourningclothing of you.
HEAD OF CHORUS
We all have remained gods. No one should pretend
Translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
Turkish Poetry in Translation