i’ve come to produce very own offspring and free son
of the black sea without yielding to any taboos,
i wasn’t beaten by the forces of carthaginian
warriors. white log, and the black one
i am covered by the lindens in the shade of chestnut trees
my back saw the yellow oleanders
its width like a mountain, mountain chain, in every mountain
lampion white birches; slopes of northeaster
its sweeping whistle makes me rebellious, neither a stork’s
wing nor the one who happens to be in the sack of eve
bears a trace; in the migration of the crested, the seed
of the oak tree, at the break of dawn
i am the one coming across the watersides
on every wave of the blue waters, every stroke
i swim, its petit shores stir
offshore sevastopol and burgas
a bit my nazim, have i arrived in kishinev
its fishermen stampeded into Karaburun
while escaping from sinop’s northeaster
oh mountains, slanting mountains, in their every slope
there sits a home, shingle falls on the roofs
downpour-like hard nut, its trapezes
that were swept by the sea, we are brothers
of the blue seas; from the kipchak language, from oguz
land, as well as russian poems
freedom fighters we are of the fields
never surrendered to the soul or to the flesh, niece
of lermontov, cousin of yesenin,
altogether for the north-ballads
we are the singing ones
Translated by Mesut Şenol