Should a day come when melancholy takes hold,
and troubles hem you in,
cast them off to the winds.
If you know nothing else to do,
simply whistle
spring and freedom
are a flutter of wings away.
I know not why,
but whenever I set out to write a poem,
you come to mind
your hair, rippling in the wind,
your eyes, with their sorrowful, shimmering depths,
and your heart, a cascading waterfall.
Was I not your spring?
Your oasis in the desert,
your purple violet,
your precious pearl
the one you cherished too dearly to even dare to love?
What has become of it all now?
I was sweet, yet I have turned sour
I was your spring, have I now become your winter?
Say that I was but a wisp of smoke,
or perhaps the wind
a fleeting breath that brushed against your cheek,
like a sudden flash of light,
is that how it was?
Come, my beloved
your spring is my spring,
do not fear the spring.
English Translation by Mesut Şenol