Hüzün
İstanbul'da bir güz. Tarifsiz bir hüzün:
toute épreuve n'est qu'ébauche. Schlafwandlerstadt, awash
amid the mist, ambula por la bruma, iroxx
liżar tal-fwar mal-lampa, qui nulle part n'y allume...
Blinking, beckoning, barking, basking in the dusk, strewn
with the absence of May. İpek gibi ve loş,
miroir brouillé de buée où la soif se reproche,
bħall-gawwi abjad ragħwa wara t-tranja tal-barkun.
İşte dumanlı nur, ein staubig Abendsturm,
pátina de hollín. In a back alley lodge,
un derviche s'épanouit comme une orchidée blanche,
reaching up to be gathered with the scythe of tattered moon.
Estambul es distancia, es ansia de otro ayer,
–bugün dün, yarın dün, ve dün sonsuz bir keder–
belt itqarnat max-xatt, titlenbeb miż-żinżifru,
belt tiżżerżaq mis-swaba' appik appik imissu,
belt titfettet, titfellel, titgerrem mill-bebbux...
Bir varmış, bir yokmuş, açık kanatlı kuş,
er träumt von höherem Flug noch zwischen Sturz und Sturz.
Sous une lune en décours, j'ai lu dans le lueur
l'écriture qui demeure sur les murs de malheur:
Minarets pierce the clouds
pining towards the sun.
The flame has done its rounds.
The light, once more, undone.
Dans l'automne monochrome Istanbul embaume son âme.
Bu akşam boğuyor. Çan. Can. Ezan. Hazan.
İstanbul'da bir güz. Tarifsiz bir hüzün:
toute épreuve n'est qu'ébauche. Schlafwandlerstadt, awash
amid the mist, ambula por la bruma, iroxx
liżar tal-fwar mal-lampa, qui nulle part n'y allume...
Blinking, beckoning, barking, basking in the dusk, strewn
with the absence of May. İpek gibi ve loş,
miroir brouillé de buée où la soif se reproche,
bħall-gawwi abjad ragħwa wara t-tranja tal-barkun.
İşte dumanlı nur, ein staubig Abendsturm,
pátina de hollín. In a back alley lodge,
un derviche s'épanouit comme une orchidée blanche,
reaching up to be gathered with the scythe of tattered moon.
Estambul es distancia, es ansia de otro ayer,
–bugün dün, yarın dün, ve dün sonsuz bir keder–
belt itqarnat max-xatt, titlenbeb miż-żinżifru,
belt tiżżerżaq mis-swaba' appik appik imissu,
belt titfettet, titfellel, titgerrem mill-bebbux...
Bir varmış, bir yokmuş, açık kanatlı kuş,
er träumt von höherem Flug noch zwischen Sturz und Sturz.
Sous une lune en décours, j'ai lu dans le lueur
l'écriture qui demeure sur les murs de malheur:
Minarets pierce the clouds
pining towards the sun.
The flame has done its rounds.
The light, once more, undone.
Dans l'automne monochrome Istanbul embaume son âme.
Bu akşam boğuyor. Çan. Can. Ezan. Hazan.
Hüzün (Sadness)
An autumn in Istanbul. An indefinable sadness: all attempt/experience is but a sketch. Sleepwalker city, awash amid the mist, rambling around in the haze, sprinkling a sheet of vapour over the lamp, which nowhere there illuminates...
Blinking, beckoning, barking, basking in the dusk, strewn with the absence of May. Silk-like and dim, a mirror blurred with steam where thirst rebukes itself, like the foam-white seagulls following the wake of the pontoon.
Here is a hazy radiance, a dusty evening storm, a patina of soot. In a back alley lodge, a dervish blossoms like a white orchid, reaching up to be gathered with the scythe of tattered moon.
Istanbul is distance, the yearning of a different yesterday, -today is yesterday, tomorrow is yesterday, and yesterday is an endless grief-
a city spreading its tentacles along the coast, rolled out by the biting draught, a city slithering between the fingers just about to touch, a city being sliced, being crumbled, being nibbled away by snails…
Once upon a time there was a bird with open wings, he dreams of higher flight still from fall to fall.
Under a waning moon, I have seen in the gleam the writing which remains on the walls of sorrow:
“Minarets pierce the clouds pining towards the sun. The flame has done its rounds. The light, once more, undone.”
In the monochrome autumn Istanbul embalms her soul. This evening is choking. Bell. Spirit. Call to prayer. The melancholy of autumn.
An autumn in Istanbul. An indefinable sadness: all attempt/experience is but a sketch. Sleepwalker city, awash amid the mist, rambling around in the haze, sprinkling a sheet of vapour over the lamp, which nowhere there illuminates...
Blinking, beckoning, barking, basking in the dusk, strewn with the absence of May. Silk-like and dim, a mirror blurred with steam where thirst rebukes itself, like the foam-white seagulls following the wake of the pontoon.
Here is a hazy radiance, a dusty evening storm, a patina of soot. In a back alley lodge, a dervish blossoms like a white orchid, reaching up to be gathered with the scythe of tattered moon.
Istanbul is distance, the yearning of a different yesterday, -today is yesterday, tomorrow is yesterday, and yesterday is an endless grief-
a city spreading its tentacles along the coast, rolled out by the biting draught, a city slithering between the fingers just about to touch, a city being sliced, being crumbled, being nibbled away by snails…
Once upon a time there was a bird with open wings, he dreams of higher flight still from fall to fall.
Under a waning moon, I have seen in the gleam the writing which remains on the walls of sorrow:
“Minarets pierce the clouds pining towards the sun. The flame has done its rounds. The light, once more, undone.”
In the monochrome autumn Istanbul embalms her soul. This evening is choking. Bell. Spirit. Call to prayer. The melancholy of autumn.
The last four words are an adaptation of the ending ("Ezan, Çan, Hazan") of the poem Boğaz'da Ortaköy'de by Beki L. Bahar, found at the top of a pole close to the Ortaköy wharf in Istanbul.
