Biliyorum söylenmeyeni I know the unspoken

Biliyorum söylenmeyeni

Şimdi ben
Bir dağa bağlayacağım umudumu
Çünkü karşılaşmadır o
İhtimaldir.
O dağda çocukluğun aklı
Şefkati gizlenmiş.
 
Bilmiyorum nerede bırakıldı gülüşün
Ve nerede yarım kalan bakışın.
Yarı gömülmüş bedenin
Anlatıyor bana
Sürmekte olanı.
Çünkü geriye bakmakla ben,
İncindim.
Bana geç verilmiş bir gerçek bu
Bir karşılaşmanın vereceği son şey.
Ekinleri hatırlıyorum.
Kesildiklerinde
Biz olmayı gösteren buğdayları.
Kavaklar kıpırdıyordu o gün
Bütün sevinçleri havalandıran
Bir bahardı.
Ne konuştuk bilmiyorum
Ama biliyorum söylenmeyeni.
 
Söylenmeyen
Kavakların hışırtısında kaybolup gidendi
Kanımızda kıpırdayandı söylenmeyen.
Ama öyle geç
Öyle geç ki,
Artık o dağı yürüsem de
Yok kimse.
 
Ne gece
Ne ateş
Beklemek de yok aramızda
Bir dağ var sadece.
 

I know the unspoken

Now
all my hope
is invested in the mountain.
It harbours possibility,
maybe, an encounter.
 
Many childhood's delicate soul
is hidden on that mountain.
 
I don’t know where your smile lies abandoned
or your unfinished stare.
Your half-
buried body betrays
what has been done.
Harm befell me when I looked back. 
I grasped the truth – 
the encounter's last gift –
too late.
 
Remember harvest-time?
Wheat, as it fell to the blade,
showing the world who we are.
The poplars shivered that day,
the air lifted
with the joys of spring.
I don't know what we talked about.
But I know what was unspoken.
 
It went astray in the rustling poplars.
It was moving in our blood the unspoken.
But it's too late –
so late,
that I will find no-one
even if I climb the mountain.
 
No night between us 
nor fire nor waiting.
 
There is only a mountain!
 

I know the unspoken

Now I
Am going to bind my hope to a mountain
Because it is an encounter it is
A possibility.
On that mountain childhood’s mind
(Its) compassion/affection/tenderness was hidden.
 
I don’t know where your smile was left
And where is your unfinished stare/look.
Your half way buried body
Tells me
What is going on.
Because by looking behind I,
I got hurt.
This is a truth that was given to me too late
The last thing an encounter would give.
I remember the crops.
The wheat showing us how to be ourselves
When they get cut.
The poplar trees were moving that day
It was spring
Lifting all the joys in the air.
What we spoke I don’t know
But I know the unspoken.
 
The unspoken
Was what got lost into the rustling of the poplar trees and left
It was what was moving in our blood the unspoken.
But it is late
It is so late,
Even if I walk that mountain
There is no one.
 
Neither night
Nor fire
There is not waiting either between us
There is only a mountain.
 

Original Poem by

Bejan Matur

Translated by

Canan Marasligil with Jen Hadfield Language

Turkish

Country

Turkey