Bring me the first word
bring the essence from the east of your inner self!
You are one who “needs the existence of nothing other than oneself in order to exist”!*
To be the god of yourself…
you have the power!
Enter the “father’s house” and leave only
after setting every room ablaze
in those rooms, in that cavern of yours,
and in the delta where you poured out a Turkey
where you opened the doors and held the only key
amidst the debts and dues, the reckoning of accounts,
in the authenticity of solitude,
in that expanse where the sky is lost to the geometry of walls, ceilings, and doorframes…
to command the mind, to rein it in,
to ride the mind like a spirited steed,
this, too, is possible…
you have the power!
The sound of rivers roaring within you swells
cast off your burden, outrun the time that lashes your shoulder.
No one will place you at the head of the “halay” dance, nor invite you to lead the company
it is about standing firm, about moving with a steady, unyielding gait,
it is persistence, it is the grime on your hands…
you have the power!
Scatter the dust left in the hands of those you have slain,
dust is a sickness,
it is being forced to face the same threshold alongside a houseful of the resentful,
it is your flesh and bone…
this marble shall be carved by your own sharp edge!
Pain is singular
it is known, and I, too, know it,
O burning ember of my eye
yes, pain is singular! It is your own utterance; propriety is a must,
this monster must die! To look beyond your religion, to look beyond your poison
to look beyond your well, your party, your team, your leading man,
an illuminated path stretches out before you, behold it.
To mark the contents of your heart…
you have the power!
There are songs sung for you…
born of hope;
you know the spring!
The sea, that blue quilt draped over your face when it smiles;
there are flowers in the gardens, roses whose thorns you cannot bear to harm
there are tables where your hand reaches for figs and olives…
stretching toward eternity
there are solitudes you have never heard, where you long to offer your ears to the brushwood
there is goat’s milk, even “kumis”,
there are glittering stars, open your window,
there is “Guernica” there is “La Maja Desnuda”,
and then, perhaps, a picture of happiness is drawn,
know that even the bronze within you will melt…
you have the power!
* Descartes
English Translation by Mesut Şenol