From Sofia

I entered Sofia on a spring day, my sweet.
Your native city smelled of linden trees.

It is my fate
to roam the world without you,
what can we do…

In Sofia, trees mean more than walls.
Trees and people blend together here,
especially the poplar
about to step into my room
and sit on the red kilim . . .

Is Sofia a big city?
Grand avenues don’t make a city big, my rose,
but the poets remembered in its monuments.
Sofia is a big city . . .

Evenings here people pour out into the streets:
women and children, young and old,
what laughter, such noise and bustle,
the buzzing crowd up and down,
side by side, arm in arm, hand in hand . . .

Ramazan nights in Istanbul,
people used to promenade this way
(that was before your time, Munevver).
No… Those nights are gone . . .
If I were in Istanbul now,
would I think to miss them?
But far from Istanbul
I miss everything,
even the visiting room at the Uskudar prison . . .

I entered Sofia on a spring day, my sweet.
Your native city smelled of linden trees.
Your countrymen welcomed me like you’ll never know.
Your native city is my brother’s house now.
But even in a brother’s house, home can’t be forgotten.

Exile is not an easy art to master . . .

24 May 1957
Varna don