As he was leaving the house he thought
Of the Istanbul mornings smelling redbud
They used to smell nice while turning purple and green
The sound of the rattle arrived before the yoghurt seller
Then he greeted an old and exhausted porter
Carrying the world on his shoulder
He gave him a shoulder on the steep road
As usual as every morning the tram driver
With long and thin moustache and greyish blue eye
Would be transporting his passengers from galata to taksim
The day was sour, november cold, he walked by saying kismet
A woman on the opposite pavement in pera
With her laced umbrella around her arm
In her hand a wet handkerchief, teary-eyed
Behind her, a man with his felt hat on his knee
His hands were covering his face, and he was too in tears
Thousands were streaming from taksim to Dolmabahçe
As the sirens were being heard in the last voyage morning of lament
The sun shined in thessaloniki faded away on tenth november
The tears fallen from my eyes
Filled the eyes of my granddad
The pen wrote this with my hand via his tongue
English Translation by Mesut ŞENOL