My dad was a master of stone
He used to take to pieces of those huge rocks
His sledgehammer weighing twelve kilos.
He used to recognize very well the variety and the veining.
He used to sculpt and shape.
Cornerstone, the big stair stone, gravestone,
Housetop roller stone…
Without complaining about hot or cold weather
The sledgehammer, the coulter, the hack hammer
Used to descend and ascend
The sound of patience, endurance and labor.
He was as real as a stone,
As hard as a rock,
And as soft as clay.
His rage being a blockbuster,
His ballad being so touching.
Witnesses were the calluses of his hands,
Cracks on the tips of his fingers,
The tar which I poured into those cracks,
Skin patch on your back.
He was a master builder
Hitting the nail on the head, be it a stone or a talk.
He inscribed on the gravestone.
Leaving the last digit missing
He accepted dying as natural as living.
The biting question was an unvarnished answer
To the era and the order.
Yet by now it wasn’t accounted for.
Questions, answers,
The sound of stone and steel
Heritage comes to my poems.
English Translation by Mesut ŞENOL