AT MY TOUCH IT TURNS INTO A FADED ROSE
It falls off a lot of people, heaven knows, Yet no passerby catches sight of it, I bend and pick it up, At my touch it turns into a faded rose. In one of those big cities He wanders at this or that crowded spot In the country at a far-off place where he is In a hotel room or a coffeehouse; Wherever he goes at this late hour He sticks his hands into his pockets And through cigarettes and pieces of paper It gently slips out and goes, I bend and pick it up, no one materializes At my touch it turns into a faded rose. Or it lingers on the lipstick That a lonely girl takes off On the threshold of another weary night When she rests her head on the pillows Sometimes at midday it cuddles up to me You know it's on that same cloud of sorrows That descends mostly at autumn or at rainfall. I reach out and clutch it, no one materializes At my touch it turns into a faded rose. On hands and lips and desolate inscriptions It gets caught in nets drawn across the night Panting like a wounded animal In anguish, he yearns to escape the net's throes And to run along the roads or the mementoes. Time and time again I take it along, it stays awake all night Stirring in darkness, whenever I touch it At my touch it turns into a faded rose.Behçet NECATİGİL
Translated by A. Turan OFLAZOĞLU & Güngör DİLMEN