We, the ones carrying their own perpetrators in their hearts.
We, the stepchildren of Allah, the ones who are never backed up…
We, the ones participating in the life like a desolate river;
the ones being unstitched from all over their bodies, the ones enduring everything…

We, the ones with ripped out buttons, without beach chair, without wine;
we, the silk worms fired from their nests…
We, the unknown and black ones…
We, the passengers, the oppressed ones, the ones without arbor;
we, the cool county cafes waned under the sun…

We, the ones hiding in the echo of the patience
in the charm of the light and the word.
We, the ones having no street except their voices,
having no homeland except their dreams…
We, the ones having bath under the rain without umbrella,
the ones being burned, the ones complaining…

We, the cursed persons, the others;
we, the ones singing folk songs!
We, the exiles, the ones without cerement;
We, the lengthy songs of the idler days,
We, who never obey!

All barrels are proper for us.
Crucifixes and graveyards are proper for us;
the loneliness is proper for us…

We, the bad news being announced to the city
We, all ones who had died but haven’t been buried…
We, the ones on whose destiny roses don’t bloom…

We were a voice in those voices once upon a time
Its echo has choked; its prompting is a lie.
We fell down in those dreams once upon a time too.
We are the questions which got their answers stolen…
We are the questions which got their answers stolen!

Yilmaz Odabasi
(Kurdish poet from Turkey)

(Translated from Turkish by Serkan Engin)