FAZIL HÜSNÜ DAGLARCA Seçme Siirler * Selected Poems

Translated by Talat Sait Halman

Kýzýlýrmak Kýyýlarý Kardaþ, senin dediklerin yok, Halay çekilen toprak bu toprak deðil. Çýk hele Anadoluya, Kamyonlarla gel, kaðnýlarla gel gayrý, O kadar uzak deðil. Çamý bitmiþ, kavaðý azalmýþ, Gamla örtülü bayýrlar, çýplak deðil. Yedi ay kýþtan sonra, Yeþeren senin yaþamýndýr, Yaprak deðil. Yersin, içersin sofrasýndan, üç yüz senedir, Kuvvetlisin ama kuvvet hak deðil. Bakýmsýzlýklarla göçüp gitmiþ bir cihan, Mevsimler soðumuþ, sular azalmýþ, Buðday, Selçuklulardan kalan baþak deðil. Parça parça yarýlmýþ öküz ardýnda, Parmaðý üç pare, týrnaðý ak deðil. Utanýr elin ayaðýn, Korkarsýn yakýndan görsen, Eli el deðil, ayaðý ayak deðil. Gün doðar, tarla kuþlarý uçuþurlar, Aðýr bir aydýnlýk, bildiðin þafak deðil. Öyle dalmýþ ki yüzyýllar süren uykusuna, Uyandýrmazsan, Uyanacak deðil. Dertle, sefaletle yüklü, Siyah leþlerle kararmýþ, berrak deðil. Çaðlayan ne, Akan kim, Kýzýlýrmak deðil. Kardaþ, görmüyorum ama hâlâ duyabiliyorum, Geçmiþ zamanlar gelecek zamanlardan parlak deðil. Vakte þahadet edercesine yükselmiþ, Akþam parýltýsýndan, bütün zaferler üzerine, Daðlar dalgalanmakta, bayrak deðil.

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.