Tinsmith master Bekir
Like the last coppersmiths
He is one of surviving ones.
He dusted the copper with salammoniac
His 40 years old pain in his belly crashing him.
While tin was melting and sparkling
Master Bekir is hopeful, and long years seem terrifying.
***
Mihriman folk song made Master Bekir
Fall in love with copper.
In every handful of thread waste
At the corner of the lost city with hidden trace.
***
On the forehead of Master Bekir
The line of the years is cast here
A bucket rotates, tin melts there,
His heart of Master Bekir doesn’t yield to the coal fire.
***
Hasan, blow with bellows
Blow so the fire gets burning
Spread tin Master Bekir spread it
Spread for tin’s melting
Let time melt
When salammoniac’s smoke dusts,
***
As long as only by one person
Crafts to be handled
Master Bekir keeps looking
While he drags the clogs.
***
My Master Bekir!
I am deeply touched by your sacred labor and the bread you earn
And by your ablaze and sweating forehead with lines for sure
And by your head wetting the floor and ascending the ninth heaven.
Translated by Mesut Senol