(You, divine, sweet woman! How come you did lose yourself all of a sudden,
You withered and got close to death?) – John Milton
Ah Cassius, Yehuda
Ah the cycle not taking its lesson
The wrong case extending heaven from the same mouth loftily
While looking for a comfy, White place
As ravaging, and abandoning hopes
It is such an in vain effort to look for it underground
In fact, while here the hungry dogs were barking along with the night howling
While the ones who wipe the eyes of their slaves were hearing
As the loneliness of the ones who took the mirror into their vanity was standing
Think that what if here is just beneath the ground
Ah flowers, patients, innocents, they all vanished
Newborns are being tied here to their backbones with brand
The verdicts are not short of a God, there is none who did not see the bayonet
As innocence was begging Paradise for human blood
They’d dig there one thousand times, the place to rock them to their core through its brightness
Once they’d find, they’d leave their place to dreaming, either on their neck of in their gamble
If it were not coming from heaven, who would believe in repentance
Which conscience would have created remorse
Which doomsday could acquit the ones who don’t understand the Hell
They are ropedancers, under the heel of unblessed
The ones who do not understand the Devil, the ones thinking they are more honorable than him
Who would vindicate the ones thinking the guilt here belongs to the Devil
If he would get up one day by considering at what we have done
If he would offer to us a winter out of tears, and it would be inevitable
What is the use of creating fire, who would add the torture layer to whose heart?
Out of this hurricane created for finding the white land
Well then, if we had killed peace by having others taste sadness
If the town was black when you close your eyes, and if the donkey bearing with long journeys are thinner
If carcass eating does not perpetuate when you are full, then it is so pointless to look for it
Every day the war makes it sleep through the sounds of medals,
They do honor to him with the crown put by mothers, and there is no wind,
There is no joy, everything is sick, numb, the red gets stained by the black
The torture of evil-doer and sinless is being ignored
There is no window, the sky is dirty, every toy is unclaimed
And still the hell of human is being searched underground
Who did come up with the idea that death is as bad as a punishment, and it is not a way out to the world
*william blake – songs of innocence
English Translation by Mesut Şenol