Anger on the tip of the tongue,
Words cracking within the verses;
Life is a mountain with a bowed head
Upon the steep slopes of pain.
Of days with furrowed brows,
The smiles are swarthy…
Mornings burdened by the weight of parting,
Roofs on the streets huddled close, brow to brow;
Grey-haired evenings laden with time,
Scattering darkness across the roads.
The city amidst clamorous throngs,
Escapes limping along the footpaths…
An aching wound lingers on the scowling face of pain,
Smiles smelling of carnations, split right down the middle.
Sorrow pours poison into the life-giving waters of the days,
Longing is the river that fouls its own bed;
Voices scalded in the confines…
English Translation by Mesut Şenol