The Faces Of Our Women
Mary didn’t give birth to God.
Mary isn’t the mother of God.
Mary is one mother among many mothers.
Mary gave birth to a son,
a son among many sons.
That’s why Mary is so beautiful in all the pictures of her.
That’s why Mary’s son is so close to us, like our own sons.
The faces of our women are the book of our pains.
Our pains, our faults and the blood we shed
carve scars on the faces of our women like plows.
And our joys are reflected in the eyes of women
like the dawns glowing on the lakes.
Our imaginations are on the faces of women we love.
Whether we see them or not, they are before us,
closest to our realities and furthest.
1962
I Want To Die Before You
I
want to die before you.
Do you think that who passes later
will find who’s gone before?
I don’t think so.
You’d better have me burned,
and put me on the stove in your room
in a jar.
The jar shall be made of glass,
transparent, white glass
so that you can see me inside…
You see my sacrifice:
I renounced from being part of the earth,
I renounced from being a flower
to be able to stay with you.
And I am becoming dust,
to live with you.
Later, when you also die,
you’ll come to my jar.
And we’ll live there together
your ash in my ash,
until a careless bride
or an unfaithful grandson
throws us out of there…
But we
until that time
will mix
with each other
so much that
even in the garbage we are thrown into
our grains will fall side by side.
We will dive into the soil together.
And one day, if a wild flower
feeds from this piece of soil and blossoms
above its body, definitely
there will be two flowers:
one is you
one is me.
I
don’t think of death yet.
I will give birth to a child.
Life is flooding from me.
My blood is boiling.
I will live, but long, very long,
but with you.
Death doesn’t scare me either.
But I find our way of funeral
rather unlikable.
Until I die,
I think this will get better.
Is there a hope you’ll get out of prison these days?
A voice in me says:
maybe.
If I do not burn
If I do not burn, if you do not burn, if we do not burn, how come light into the darkness?
Nazım Hikmet Ran
The Japanese Fisherman
A young Japanese fisherman was killed
by a cloud at sea.
I heard this song from his friends,
one lurid yellow evening on the Pacific.
Those who eat the fish we caught, die.
Those who touch our hands, die,
This ship is a black coffin,
you’ll die if you come up the gangplank.
Those who eat the fish we caught, die,
not straight away, but slowly,
slowly their flesh rots, falls off.
Those who eat the fish we caught, die.
Those who touch our hands, die.
Our loyal, hardworking hands
washed by salt and sun.
Those who touch our hands, die,
not straight away, but slowly,
slowly their flesh rots, falls off.
Those who touch our hands, die.
Almond Eyes, forget me.
This ship is a black coffin,
you’ll die if you come up the gangplank.
The cloud has passed over us.
Almond Eyes, forget me.
Don’t hug me my darling,
you’ll catch death from me.
Almond Eyes, forget me.
This ship is a black coffin.
Almond Eyes, forget me.
The child you have from me
will be rotten from a rotten egg.
This ship is a black coffin.
This sea is a dead sea.
Human beings, where are you?
Where are you?
1956
Listen this lyric with the voice of Nazim Hikmet