-A Flower Without a Name- If my eyes are sparkling like a flower without a name exhibiting its color to the world for the first time my beloved it is when you tell me 'you are a poet'. I'm writing this poem only for you do not read it like a poem if you wish as I will be rewriting it every year with the joy of a bird flying high up when the cold days arrive after travelling over miles getting a taste of the south And I will write In every era and every age In a language that is unique to love -Translated by Rukiye Uçar... -Original Version in Turkish: Adsız Çiçek Rengini dünyaya ilk defa sunan Adsız bir çiçek gibi parlıyorsa gözlerim Sevgilim Bana 'sen bir şairsin' dediğin zaman. Yalnız sana yazıyorum bu şiiri İstersen bir şiir gibi okuma Çünkü her yıl yeniden yazacağım onu Soğuklar…

Thoughts of you unending
here in Ch’ang-an,

crickets where the well mirrors year-end golds cry out
autumn, and under a thin frost, mats look cold, ice-cold.

My lone lamp dark, thoughts thickening, I raise blinds
and gaze at the moon. It renders the deepest lament

empty. But you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud,

skies opening away all bottomless azure above, clear
water all billows and swelling waves below. Skies endless

for a spirit in sad flight, the road over hard passes
sheer distance, I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,

my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending.

translated by David Hinton

My love’s gone off to war,
who knows how long gone
or where O where.
Chickens settle unto nests,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander in–
but my love’s gone off to war
and nothing can stop these thoughts of him.

My love’s gone off to war,
not for days or even months,
and who survives such things?
Chickens settle onto perches,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander home–
but my love’s gone off to war
if hunger and thirst spared him that long.

translated by David Hinton

still very much alone
haunted by his memories
what it could have been
what it was, images of
what probably lies ahead

I climb that wooded hill
And look towards where my father is.
My father is saying, ‘Alas, my son is on service;
Day and night he knows no rest.
Grant that he is being careful of himself,
So that he may come back and not be left behind.’

I climb that bare hill
And look towards where my mother is.
My mother is saying, ‘Alas, my young one is on service;
Day and night he gets no sleep.
Grant that he is being careful of himself,
So that he may come back, and not be cast away.’

I climb that ridge
And look towards where my elder brother is.
My brother is saying, ‘Alas, my young brother is on service;
Day and night he toils.
Grant that he is being careful of himself,
So that he may come back and not die.’

translated by Arthur Waley