WINTER IS OVER
"I've studied the art of farewell," specialized in exile. I've learnt how a boat puts out from port. Learnt the bitterness of a train whistle. For years I lived on letters, lived on smuggled tobacco, banned publications. I've not forgotten a thing. Nothing. Ever. In the icy loneliness of the steppes the sails at sea were what I missed the most. There were no mountains, no mountains: I leant back on the winds. Was I out of my mind? A prisoner, say, in the heart of darkness? The blood dried - and I was a rose, blown into flower.Cevat ÇAPAN Translated by Michael HULSE