FAZIL HÜSNÜ DAGLARCA Seçme Siirler * Selected Poems

Translated by Talat Sait Halman

Kizilirmak Kiyilari Kardas, senin dediklerin yok, Halay çekilen toprak bu toprak degil. Çik hele Anadoluya, Kamyonlarla gel, kagnilarla gel gayri, O kadar uzak degil. Çami bitmis, kavagi azalmis, Gamla örtülü bayirlar, çiplak degil. Yedi ay kistan sonra, Yeseren senin yasamindir, Yaprak degil. Yersin, içersin sofrasindan, üç yüz senedir, Kuvvetlisin ama kuvvet hak degil. Bakimsizliklarla göçüp gitmis bir cihan, Mevsimler sogumus, sular azalmis, Bugday, Selçuklulardan kalan basak degil. Parça parça yarilmis öküz ardinda, Parmagi üç pare, tirnagi ak degil. Utanir elin ayagin, Korkarsin yakindan görsen, Eli el degil, ayagi ayak degil. Gün dogar, tarla kuslari uçusurlar, Agir bir aydinlik, bildigin safak degil. Öyle dalmis ki yüzyillar süren uykusuna, Uyandirmazsan, Uyanacak degil. Dertle, sefaletle yüklü, Siyah leslerle kararmis, berrak degil. Çaglayan ne, Akan kim, Kizilirmak degil. Kardas, görmüyorum ama hala duyabiliyorum, Geçmis zamanlar gelecek zamanlardan parlak degil. Vakte sahadet edercesine yükselmis, Aksam pariltisindan, bütün zaferler üzerine, Daglar dalgalanmakta, bayrak degil.

Banks of the Red River Brother, what you say isn't so. This is not the land where people dance and cheer. Come out to Anatolia, Come by trucks or ox-carts, but come. You aren't far from here. Their pinetrees are gone, their poplars scarce. Hillsides are not naked, but covered with grief. After seven months of winter, Your life turns green, But not the leaf. For three hundred years you fed on this land's food; Might is not right though your power holds sway. A world squandered by neglect, All its seasons chilly, its waters dwindling, Its wheat not the wheat of the Seljuk heyday... Trail the ox whose skin is in shreds. His toes are torn, his nails black with mud. Your hands and feet flinch with shame. Take a close look, you would shudder. His hands are not hands, his feet a thud. The sun rises, the larks take wing, A heavy light, not your familiar daybreak. She has sunk so deep in her sleep of centuries, Unless you wake her up, She will not wake. Darkened and muddled by black corpses, Grief and misery are her lot. Whatever cascades are Or an easy flow, The Red River is not. Brother, I can't see, but I can still feel. Neither the bygone ages nor the days to come glitter. Risisng like the affirmation of faith over time, In the gleam of the night, upon all victories, Not the flag, but the mountains flutter.