Cause of my Grief, I Forgave You

Izzet died, you wrote me a letter.
I cried reading your letter that whole summer,
Spent in my ivy-covered garden.
Crying implied desperation, though maybe I was always desperate.
Crying implied escape, though maybe I always escaped.
Crying implied misapprehension, though maybe I always misunderstood.
Crying implied a mistake, and maybe I always made mistakes.
In my ivy covered garden that whole summer,
Cause of my grief, I forgave you.
The summer passed, the rust of autumn accrued inside of me.
Dry leaves, Ozan completed his military service.
I don’t know if anything else occurred.
If there is one thing I don’t know, it’s the ritual of worship.
(I don't know is how to pray five times a day.)
I know separation and betrayal.
I know camaraderie and the cold hand of death
Wandering over my bosom biting like a snake, silently.
Everyone likes silence, not me.
Izzet didn’t like to carry his books under his armpit,
But he liked reading them.
He liked poetry, but not darkness
He didn’t especially like this city, but he liked its crowdedness.
He was all alone, and he liked those wounded like himself.
This is why the carnation on his collar never faded away.
Izzet died and you wrote me a letter.
I shivered reading your letter that whole summer
Spent in my ivy-covered garden.
Shivering implied unhappiness, though maybe we were always unhappy.
Shivering implied fear, though maybe we were always frightened.
Shivering implied loneliness, though maybe we were always lonely.
Shivering implied poetry, though maybe we were always poets.

Translated by Dr.Nesrin Eruysal & Prof.Dr.Kenneth Rosen