16093525 Nazim Hikmet Selected Poems

Nazim Hikmet

Selected Poems

A PARICHAYA -UNITY PUBLICATION

FIRST INDIAN EDITION: APRIL 1952.

PUBLISHED BY ASOKE GHOSH

PARICHAYA PRAKASHANI 63, DHARMATALA STREET, CALCUTTA13. PRINTED AT PRINTKRAFT LTD., CALCUTTA 13.

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS BY COURTESY MASSES AND MAINSTREAM.

COVER DESIGN BY SATYAJIT ROY

Rupee one annas eight only Copyright Reserved

NAZIM HIKMET There are some men who do not die. It is as impossible to kill them as it is to imprison laughter, to tie a noose round the neck of happiness, or to plunge a dagger into the heart of a song. Nazim Hikmet was put in solitary confinement in a Turkish dungeon by a Government which hated his poems. He was seriously ill with a heart disease towards the end of his long confinement on a prison term of 23 years. The Turkish Government thought they had finished with Nazim Hikmet. Imagine their disappointment when they found they had imprisoned only half the man! For had he not himself written to his doctor: "If the half of my heart is here, doctor, The other half is in China With the Red Army advancing towards the Yellow River." Nazim Hikmet was denied newspapers, letters, visitors. Yet he addressed his friends in his poems, Ahmet the driver, and Yakup the schoolteacher, and he went back into the ancient history of his country and sang of the hero, Galip Usta. Only one half of his heart suffered with ANGINA PECTORIS; the other half "beat with the most distant star." The flesh and blood that the massive stones of his Turkish jail could not grind to dust, addressed itself to children and old men, saying: "We will see happy days, children, We will see happy days ......” He knew that his audience was the simple, ever-growing, ever-loving, people of the world. His voice rang out from his dungeon, his poems travelled on scraps of paper throughout his country, crossed the seas and brought fire to the hearts of all men. He sang of the loves and desires of simple men, who wanted to "eat at a white-clothed table," and he also sang with the fierce determination of men who have had a lifetime of suffering and who are determined to drag the sun out of the cruel heart of a jungle society: "Victory will be snatched with teeth and nails" “And nothing will be forgiven." Last year, the year in which Nazim Hikmet was awarded the International Peace Prize, the Turkish Government was forced by a world-wide wave of protests to free the man they could not kill.

And their defeat is the victory of all men who love children and sailing-boats and violins. March 31, 1952

David Cohen I

ABOUT ART Real art is the art that reflects life. One can find in it all the conflicts, struggles, inspirations, victories, defeats, and love of life, and all the aspects of human personality. Real art is the art that does not give false ideas about life. The new poet does not recognize separate languages for poetry, prose and talking. He writes in a language that is not made-up, false, artificial, but natural, lively, colourful, deep, extremely complicated-that is, a simple language. All the elements of life exist in this language. The poet does not have a different personality when he writes than when he talks or fights. A poet is not a degenerate dreaming that he is flying in the clouds, he is a citizen, engaged in life, organizing life.

NAZIM HIKMET

CONTENTS OPTIMISM PERHAPS IF NOT TONIGHT FAREWELL MICROCOSMOS WRITTEN ABOUT THE WALL OF IMPERIALISM SURROUNDING THE EAST THAT WAS SHOVED BACK INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA FROM IZMIR AND WILL SOON BE FORCED BACK TO THE INDIAN OCEAN FROM BOMBAY FROM THE EPIC OF SHEIK BEDREDDIN IT IS SNOWING IN THE NIGHT SUNDAY FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE STRUGGLE SOME OF THEMAHMET THE DRIVER THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK SNAKE ABOUT VICTORY LETTERS FROM PRISON (1942-1946) FROM THE EPIC OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR ADVICE TO A FELLOW PRISONER YOUR HANDS AND THEIR LIES ANGINA PECTORIS THE FUNNIEST CREATURE

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY THE ENEMIES SINCE I WAS JAILED YOU AND ME TO PAUL ROBESON THE FIFTH DAY OF A HUNGER STRIKE GRAFTING YOU ARE MY COUNTRY MORNING EVENING STROLL A SAD FREEDOM THAT IS THE QUESTION

OPTIMISM We will see beautiful days, children we will see sunny days. We will sail our speedboats into the open sea, children we will sail them into the bright blue open sea. … Imagine going full speed the motor turning the motor roaring. Oh children who can tell how wonderful to kiss when your speed reaches 100 miles…

True for us today there are flower gardens on Fridays, on Sundays only on Fridays only on Sundays. … True today we admire the stores on lighted streets as if listening to a fairy tale, those stores with glass walls seventy-seven stories high. True when we cry for an answer the black book opens for us: the jail. Leather belts seize our arms broken bones blood.

True now on our table there is meat but once a week. And our children come home from work like pallid skeletons.

True now.... But believe me will see beautiful days, children we will see sunny days. We will sail our speedboats into the open sea we will sail them into the bright blue open sea... 1930

PERHAPS

Perhaps I, long before that day Swinging at the end of the bridge Will cast my shadow on the asphalt Perhaps I, long after that day A trace of gray beard on my clean-shaven chin Will still be alive And I, long after that day If I remain alive Leaning against the walls in the city squares, Will play the violin on holiday evenings For the old men who, like me, survived the last struggle All around us lighted sidewalks in a wonderful night And the footsteps of new people Singing new songs. 1930

IF NOT TONIGHT If not tonight tomorrow night I will go to jail... Not a leaf stirring within myself Like an undisturbed sleep, my mind is quiet at ease. My mind is quiet at ease: For I am watching the blue sky like a newborn child. Yesterday I went out on the city square and said: "Let us not kill our brothers let us not die for Them!” 1930

FAREWELL Farewell my friends

farewell! I am carrying you in my heart deep in my heart and my struggle in my mind. Farewell my friends farewell! Don’t line up on the shore like birds in picture-cards to wave kerchiefs at me I want none of this. From head to toe I see myself in the eyes of my friends Oh friends brothers in struggle brothers in work comrades Farewell without words. The nights will fasten a lock on the door The years will knit their net on the windows And I will shout the song of the prison As a fighting song. We will meet again, my friends, we will meet again Together we will laugh at the sun Together we will fight Oh friends brothers in struggle brothers in work comrades Farewell.

1931

MICROCOSM1

When the starlight flowing into my eye like a golden drop Pierced the darkness of space for the first time, there wasn’t one single eye on the earth looking into the sky.... The stars were old, the earth was a child. The stars are far from us but so very far

so very far. … Our world is small among the stars but so very small so very small. …

And Asia is one fifth of the world, And India is a country in Asia. Calcutta is a city in India Benerjee is a man in Calcutta.

And I am bringing you the news: In India In the city of Calcutta they stopped on his way A man who was walking and they chained him. And I don’t bother anymore to lift my head toward the bright skies. If the stars are far, if the earth is small I don’t care at all I don’t mind. … 1

This is a fragment from an epic on the life and death of an Indian revolutionary, Benerjee, published in 1934.

I want you to know that I find more astonishing more powerful more mysterious and gigantic THIS MAN stopped on his way

and chained. 1934

WRITTEN ABOUT THE WALL OF IMPERIALISM SURROUNDING THE EAST THAT WAS SHOVED BACK INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA FROM IZMIR AND WILL SOON BE FORCED BACK TO THE INDIAN OCEAN FROM BOMBAY

That wall That wall is rising like a second Balkan in the Balkans. That wall, that wall… They are shooting our people in front of that wall! Every single foot of land along that wall has its long epic, as long as that wall. They are plucking the male organs of those who die in front of that wall to make youth serums for the strawlike, syphilitic skeletons of the millionaires! The millionaires buried in the flesh of whores are listening like a radio-concert to the death orders given in front of that wall with bullet sounds! That wall there is a mobilization in front of that wall. A mobilization more widespread more accursed than in 1914.... Just as darkness in the sunlight runs to hide in a hole imperialists are running to this mobilization... The League of Nations of the British warships the diplomat with gunpowder-scented white gloves the producer of rotten human flesh the imperialist general, the Second International, The philosopher who fertilizes and digs the soil of “Religion”

to pick up its poisonous flowers, and writes his works on bank-notes, The poet in love with permanganate, the chemist who sells death rays all are mobilized mobilized under the banner of that wall. That wall That wall, that wall, They are shooting our people in front of that wall....

FROM THE EPIC OF SHEIK BEDREDDIN In the preface to the "Epic of Sheik Bedreddin”, published in 1936, Nazim explains that while in prison he read a distorted history of a popular uprising that took place in Turkey, in the XIVth century. He felt so disgusted with the biased and sketchy treatment of this revolt that he decided to write a long epic which would do it justice. Nazim wanted to show that Turkish history is not devoid of heroic uprisings of the downtrodden masses against their oppressors. The uprising of Sheik Bedreddin was not only confined to the Turkish masses. The Greek and Jewish inhabitants of the region called Karaburun, in the western part of Anatolia, across from the island of Chios, also participated in this struggle for a better life. The peasant disciple of Sheik Bedreddin, Mustafa Berklujeh, led the revolting people in a fight against the overwhelming forces of the Ottoman Empire headed by the Royal Prince Murad. The movement of Sheik Bedreddin was a primitive type of communism aiming at common ownership of land, tools, foodstuffs, clothes, everything except the women. The movement was crushed in a brutal way. Sheik Bedreddin and Mustafa Berklujeh were hanged. They became martyrs and their followers never lost their faith in ultimate victory. It was hot very hot The heat was like a knife with a bloody handle with a dull blade. It was hot The clouds were loaded, ready to burst to burst right away. Without moving, he looked down from the rocks his eyes, like two eagles, descended over the plain There the softest and hardest the stingiest and most generous the most loving the greatest and most beautiful woman the EARTH was about to give birth to give birth right away. It was hot He watched the horizon at the end of the earth with knitted eyebrows.

Plucking children's heads like bloody poppies in the fields, dragging naked shrieks in its wake, a five-crested fire came gushing from the horizon the Royal Heir Murad was coming. The Royal order issued to Murad was to reach the land of Aydin and fall on Mustafa, the follower of Bedreddin. It was hot, Mustafa the follower of Bedreddin looked he looked, Mustafa the peasant looked without fear without anger without a smile he looked straight ahead standing erect he looked. The softest and hardest the stingiest and most generous the most loving the greatest and most beautiful woman the EARTH was about to give birth to give birth right away. He looked From the rocks Bedreddin's braves looked at the horizon The end of this earth was getting closer and closer on the wings of a bird of death carrying a Royal order. Those men looking down from the rocks had opened this earth with its grapes, figs, its pomegranates, its cattle with hair blonder and milk thicker than honey, its narrow-hipped and lion-maned horses, had opened it like a brother's table with no walls and no boundaries. It was hot He looked Bedreddin's braves looked at the horizon The softest and hardest the stingiest and most generous the most loving

the greatest and most beautiful woman the EARTH was about to give birth to give birth right away. It was hot the clouds were loaded the first drop of rain, like a sweet word was about to fall to the ground Suddenly, as if flowing from the rocks, pouring from the skies, growing out of the ground like the latest product of this earth, Bedreddin's braves jumped on the Royal Heir's army They were clad in seamless white shirts, bare-headed bare-footed, their swords naked. They fought fiercely Turkish peasants from Aydin Greek sailors from Chios Jewish merchants the ten thousand comrades of Berklujeh Mustafa plunged like ten thousand axes into the forest of the enemy. The ranks with red and green flags, ornamented shields and bronze helmets were torn into pieces but when in the pouring rain the day passed into evening the ten thousand were but two thousand. To be able, singing all together to pull the nets together from the sea, working the iron into a lace together, to be able together to plough the land and eat all together the figs as sweet as honey, to be able to say; All together Everywhere In everything But on the cheek of the beloved, the ten thousand gave their eight thousand. They were defeated.

On the seamless white shirts of the vanquished The victors wiped their bloody swords And the earth they had tilled together with brotherly hands like a song sung together was trodden under the hoofs of horses born in the Palace of Edirne. 1936

IT IS SNOWING IN THE NIGHT Neither to hear voices from the world beyond nor strive to bring into my verses the “unfathomable” nor search for the rhyme with the care of a jeweler, no beautiful words, profound discourse Thank God I am above well above this tonight. Tonight I am a street singer, there is no talent in my voice; my voice is singing for you a song you will not bear. It is snowing in the night, You are at the door of Madrid. In front of you an army killing the most beautiful things we own, hope, yearning, freedom and children, The City.... It is snowing And perhaps tonight your wet feet are cold. It is snowing And while I am thinking about you a bullet might be hitting you right now; then for you no more snow, wind, day or night... It is snowing. Before you stood at the door of Madrid saying “no pasaran” you must have been living somewhere. Who knows Perhaps You came from the coal mines of Asturias Perhaps around your head a bloody bandage hides a wound you got in the North. And perhaps you were the one who fired the last shot in the suburbs while the “Junkers” were burning Bilbao. Or perhaps you were a hired hand on the farm of some Count Fernando Valeskeras de Cordoban

Perhaps you had a small shop on the “Plaza del Sol” you sold colorful Spanish fruits. Perhaps you had no craft, perhaps you had a beautiful voice. Perhaps you were a student of philosophy or law and your books were crushed by the wheels of an Italian tank on the campus of your University. Perhaps you did not believe in heaven and perhaps you have on your chest a little cross hanging on a string. Who are you, what is your name, when were you born? I have never seen, I will never see your face. Who knows Perhaps it looks like the faces of those who beat Kolchak in Siberia; Perhaps it looks a little like the face of someone who lies on the battlefield of Dumlupinar4 you might even look something like Robespierre. I have never seen, I will never see your face, you have never heard, you will never hear my name. There are between us seas and mountains, my cursed helplessness, and the “Committee of Non-Intervention.” I cannot come to you I cannot even send you a case of cartridges fresh eggs or a pair of woolen socks. And yet I know, in this cold snowy weather your wet feet guarding the door of Madrid are cold like two naked children. I know, everything great and beautiful there is, everything great and beautiful man has still to create that is, everything my nostalgic soul hopes for Smiles in the eyes of the sentry at the door of Madrid. And tomorrow, like yesterday, like tonight I can do nothing else but love him. December 25, 1937

SUNDAY It's Sunday today For the first time today They let me out in the sun And for the first time in my life Amazed to find the sky so far away so blue so huge I stood there motionless. Then full of awe I sat on the ground. I pressed my back against the white wall. No idle dreams at this moment no struggle, no freedom, no wife. The earth, the sun and myself... I am happy. 1938

FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE STRUGGLE This epic describes the struggle of the Turkish people to overthrow their Ottoman rulers, as well as the yoke of foreign imperialism, which took place in the wake of the first World War (1919-1922). Turkey, then known as the Ottoman Empire, had participated in World War I as an ally of the German Empire. The Ottoman Empire was the "sick man of Europe," defeated, occupied by British, French and Italian forces, and betrayed by her own rulers who collaborated with the occupation forces. The decadent Ottomans signed the infamous treaty of Sevres that reduced Turkey's existence to nothing but a small piece of rocky land in the interior of Anatolia. To make matters worse, Greek monarchists inspired by British imperialists sent out an army of mercenaries which invaded the whole of Western Anatolia. In the midst of this situation the great drama called the struggle for national independence unfolds itself. The poor, starving masses of Turkey who carried the burden of exploitation on their shoulders for centuries, led by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, took the initiative of throwing out of the country the imperialists, as well as the ruthless Ottoman monarchs. Those masses "...at dawn... from the edge of darkness... press their heavy hands against the earth and stand up," they become heroes. Some of the poems that form this epic relate the story of the whole people, while some tell of the exploits of single individuals. It is the first-hand account of an eyewitness, of a participant in the National Independence Struggle, Nazim. himself. Written in jail, around 1940, this epic which was never published was passed from hand to hand, from mouth to ear, all over the country.

Those who are as numerous as ants in the earth, fish in the sea, and birds in the air; Who are cowardly, brave, ignorant, learned, and child-like; Those who destroy

and create; Only their adventures are in our book. Those who, deceived by the temptations of the traitor, drop to the ground the flags they were holding, And leaving the enemy in the battlefield run away home. Those who draw their swords against scores of renegades, Who laugh like a green tree, Cry without reason, And curse mother and wife, Only their adventures are in our book. The fate of iron of coal of sugar of red copper of textile Of love and ruthlessness and life of all the branches of industry of the sky of the desert of the blue ocean Of the gloomy river beds of the ploughed soil and of the cities, their fate changes one morning at dawn. At dawn when from the edge of darkness they press their heavy hands against the earth and stand up. They are the wisest mirrors reflecting the most colourful shapes. In our century they were the victors, they were the vanquished. A great deal was said about them And about them it was said: "They have nothing to lose but their chains."

SOME OF THEM It is three thirty the squad is in its position on the Halamur-Ayvalik railroad. Corporal Ali from Izmir straining his eyes in the darkness looked one by one at the men of the squad as if he was never to see them again... The first man on the right was blond the second dark the third stuttered, but there was no better singer in the whole company. The fourth one was certainly craving for some sweets. The fifth was going to shoot the man who shot his uncle the very night he would reach Urfa after being discharged. The sixth, the man with incredibly large feet, was being sued by his brothers because he left his land and only ox to his old immigrant wife. And because he always stood guard for his friends he was called in the company "the crazy man from Erzurum." The seventh was Osman, son of Nehmet, he was wounded in the Dardanelles, at Inonu, at Sakarya, and he can take some more wounds and still stand straight without blinking his eyes. The eighth, Ibrahim would not have been so scared if his white teeth did not keep chattering and knocking against each other... And Corporal Ali from Izmir says: the rabbit does not run away because he is afraid he is afraid because he runs away. It is four o'clock. In the sector of Black Mouth and Willow River the 12th infantry division the eyes in the darkness fixed on the distance the hands near by on the trigger everybody is in place. The chaplain, he only gunless man in the dugouts...

the man of the dead... sticking a broken willow twig in the direction of Mecca started his morning prayer bending his head and clasping his hands. His conscience is at ease, heaven is an eternal rest. Whether they defeat the enemy or are defeated from the field of battle he will with his own hands give to the Almighty the souls of the martyrs. It is four forty-five. In the vicinity of Sandikli villages... The cavalry man with a black hanging mustache was standing next to his horse beside a maple tree. The horse from Chukurova was beating its tail against the darkness with blood on its knees and foam on its tether... The fourth company of the second cavalry division with its horses, swords and men was smelling the air. Far on the rear, in the villages a cock crowed, and the cavalry man with the hanging black mustache though he did not know how and when they would come had faith in the days of revenge, comfortable and beautiful. In Kojatepe in his observation post the sentry with the woollen calpack was standing with his smiling mustache beside his Mauser. Suddenly he saw “HIM"2 five feet away on his right. The generals were behind "HIM." "HE" asked the time. The generals said "five o'clock." He looked like a blond wolf. His blue eyes were sparkling. He walked up to the edge of the abyss, leaned forward and stopped. Bouncing on his thin long legs he was going to jump from Kojatepe to the Afyon Hills sliding like a star in the darkness.

2

HIM – Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, leader of the independence struggle

AHMET THE DRIVER What were we saying Ahmet my son? Leaving on your right the shops of the casters, you turn toward the Long Market at the comer, on the left, the book peddlers: the Story of the Palace of Crystal six volumes of History by Jevdet and "the Art of the Cuisine".. Cuisine means kitchen, that is, to cook a meal. I love stuffed mackerel. You can hold it by its gilded tail and eat it like a bunch of grapes. A cavalry, group is riding ahead of us they have just turned to the left... You go down straight to the Long Market, Chairmakers, backgammon-pawn makers, rosary makers... And you the native of Istanbul, since you are used to the skill of your own hands, you are puzzled by the people of Istanbul; you say how subtle and varied their skills are. The Mosque of Rustem Pasha, then the rope makers... At the rope makers they sell enough ropes, cords, and bells made of moulded bronze to equip a hundred sail-boats and innumerous mule caravans. The Prison Gate, Father Jafer, in the distance the Fishmarket, and the dried fruit sellers... We are on the fruit quay. I am longing for that sea with its rowboats and barges, with its sunny watermelon peels. Is my left back tire leaking? I should get down and take a look...

Once we took the slow boat from the Fruit Quay and went to the wishing well in Eyup. Her hands were short and plump and her legs were slightly bowed but her eyes were like green olives and her eyebrows arched like crescents. As we came to the Rustem. Pasha mosque the one with the white scarf.. The tire is leaking; if we don't find a way out of this trouble... Let's see Father Jafer. The truck number three stopped. Darkness, jack, PUMP, hands, his swearing hands, angry because they have to swear. While working on the tire and the old wheel Ahmet remembered: One night he was carrying his paralytic grandmother from one couch to the other and the poor woman... The inner tube is torn from end to end, No spare tire. To shout for help in the mountains? You are from Suleymaniye Ahmet my son! This truck number three was entrusted to you alone. And also remember the sheep that was hanged by its own leg. Undress, driver Ahmet from Suleymaniye! So, he got undressed Coat, trousers, shorts, shirt and calpack and the red sash leaving Ahmet naked but for his boots went inside the tire and blew it up. This a Nihavent3 song. A city on the seashore her white scarf .. 3

A style in classical Turkish music

We are making thirty per hour. Hold on old truck that is wearing me out hold on so that the mountains can see Ahmet the driver stark naked. Hold on my lion-hearted! No man has ever loved with such pitying hope any machine.

THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK SNAKE The people of Antep are good shooters, they can shoot a flying crane right in the eye, a running rabbit on its hind leg. They stand on their Arabian horses thin and tall like a crisp, green cypress tree. Antep is a hot Antep is a tough place The people of Antep are good shooters The people of Antep are brave. The Black Snake before he became the Black Snake was a farm hand in the Antep villages. Perhaps he was contented, perhaps he was not contented. - they did not give him to think about these matters He used to live like a field mouse and was as cowardly as a field mouse. Bravery is possible only with horses, guns and land. He did not possess horses, guns and land. His neck was as thin as a straw his head was enormous. The Black Snake before he become the Black Snake when the enemy entered Antep was brought down by the people of Antep from the pistachio tree that hid his fear. They drew a horse under him they put a gun in his hand... Antep is a tough place on the red rocks are green lizards. Hot clouds in the air drift forward and backward... The infidel was holding the hills The infidel had guns the people of Antep were crushed in the flat plain

the infidel was pouring shrapnels the infidel was tearing the earth from the roots. The infidel was holding the hills The blood of Antep was flowing. The shield of the Black Snake before he became the Black Snake was a rose bush in the plain. This bush was so tiny his fear and his head were so big that he was lying flat without putting a bullet in his barrel. Antep is a hot, Antep is a tough place The people of Antep are good shooters. The people of Antep are brave. But the infidel had guns Fate was ineluctable the people of Antep would leave the flat plain to the infidel. Before he became the Black Snake the Black Snake did not care at all if Antep was given to the infidel until doomsday, for they had never allowed him to think. He lived on the earth like a field mouse and was as cowardly as a field mouse. His shield was a rose bush. He was lying flat under the rosebush. From behind a white stone a black snake put out its head. Its skin was bright and shiny its tongue fork-shaped its eyes redder than fire. Suddenly a bullet came and hit its head it fell and died there. The Black Snake before he became the Black Snake seeing the end of the black snake shouted at the top of his voice the first thought of his life:

"Take a lesson, my heart' he said, "death found the black snake behind the white stone, "it will find you too even if you hide in an iron trunk." And when he who had been as cowardly as a field mouse ran and jumped forward the people of Antep, were roused they followed him. They beat the infidel on the hills. And to him who had lived like a field mouse who had been as cowardly as a field mouse they gave the name of "Black Snake." This is the story we have heard and in the first part of our epic we wrote this story just as it was told to us; the story of Antep of the people of Antep and of the Black Snake who was famous for years at the head of his guerillas.

ABOUT VICTORY Your hands pressed on the wound biting your lip till it bleeds you must bear the awful pain. Hope is now but a bare and ruthless shriek. Victory will be snatched with teeth and nails and nothing will be forgiven. The days are dark the days are bringing news of death. The enemy is harsh cruel and sly. Our men are dying in the struggle - Yet how they deserved to live – Our men are dying - so many of them – As if with their songs and flags they were out for a parade on a holiday so young so reckless... The days are dark the days are bringing news of death. With our own hands we burned most beautiful worlds and our eyes can no longer cry, Leaving us a little sad and hard our tears are gone so this is why we have forgotten how to forgive... The goal we have to reach will be reached shedding blood, Victory will be snatched with teeth and nails and nothing will be forgiven. 1941

LETTERS FROM PRISON (1942-1946)

I My only one in your last letter You say: “My head is aching my heart is bewildered.” you say: “If they hang you If I lose you I cannot live.” You will live my darling wife, My memory will fade like black smoke in the wind. You will live, red-haired sister of my heart. In the twentieth century mourning the dead lasts but one year. Death... A corpse swinging at the end of a rope, I cannot resign my heart to such a death. But be assured my beloved that if the hairy hand of the hangman ties a rope around my neck, they will look in vain into the blue eyes of Nazim to see fear. In the dim light of my last morning I will see my friends and you, and I will only take to the grave the sorrow of an unfinished song. My wife, my own my tender-hearted bee with eyes sweeter than honey! Why did I ever write you they wanted a death sentence,

The trial is only just starting and a man’s head cannot be plucked like a turnip. Don’t give it another thought. All this is a distant prospect, if you have some money buy me flannel drawers: I have sciatic pains in my leg. And don’t forget the wife of a prisoner must always have cheerful thoughts.

II The wind flows and passes, The same cherry branch never swings twice in the same wind. On the tree the birds are singing: Wings want to fly. The door is closed: it has to be forced open. I want you: Life should be beautiful like you, A friend, a beloved like you... I know, the banquet of misery has not yet come to an end, But it will end. III Kneeling I am looking at the earth I am looking at the branches with their bright blue blossoms You are like the spring earth my beloved I am looking at you. Lying on my back I see the sky You are like spring, you are like the sky My beloved I see you. At night, in the country, I built a fire, I touch the fire You are like a fire lit under the stars My beloved I am touching you.

I am among men, I love mankind I love action I love thought I love my struggle You are a human being inside my struggle my beloved I love you. IV Beyond description - they say - the misery of Istanbul, Starvation - they say - is reaping so many lives, Tuberculosis - they say is so widespread. Tiny little girls they say in back alleys, in movie houses. Bad news is coming from my distant home town: the city of honest, industrious, poor people My real Istanbul. My darling, it is the place you live in, It is the city I carry on my back, in my bag Wherever I am exiled, wherever I am jailed, I bear in my heart like a sharp pain caused by the loss of a child. It is the city I carry in my eyes like your image. V It is nine o’clock the bell rang on the square the cell doors will be closing any minute. Prison lasted a little too long this time eight years. To live is a hopeful job my beloved To live: it’s just as serious as to love you To think of you is a beautiful a hopeful thing... But hope does not satisfy me anymore I don’t want to listen to a song I want to sing my own song. VI

Warm and lively like blood rushing from a vein the South winds are blowing. Listen to the tunes the pulse beats slower. It must be snowing on top of Uludagh4 and the bears up there on the reddened chestnut leaves must be lost in a sweet and beautiful sleep. In the plain the willows must be undressing The silkworms will soon shut themselves in. Autumn will soon be over The earth is about to fall sound asleep Another winter will pass and we will warm ourselves up at the fire of our wrath and of our sacred hope.

VII Our son is sick His father is in jail Your heavy head is resting on your tired hands We are at the same point, this world and ourselves. Men will carry men From bad days to better days Our son will get well His father will come out of jail You will smile deep in your golden eyes We are at the same point, this world and ourselves.

VIII The most beautiful ocean is the one we have not yet seen, The most beautiful child has not yet grown up. Our most beautiful days are those we have not yet lived. And the most beautiful things I would like to tell you I have not yet told. 4

Mount Olympus, near Bursa

IX

I saw you in my dream last night you lifted your head, you looked at me with your amber eyes your moist lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear your voice. Somewhere in the dark night the clock strikes like bright news. I can hear eternity whispering in the air “The Song of Memo”5 in my canary’s red cage, in a ploughed field the noise of the growing seeds cracking in the earth, and the righteous uproar of a glorious crowd. Your moist lips were moving but I couldn’t hear your voice. I woke up swearing. I had fallen asleep on my book. Among all these voices, didn’t I hear your voice too?

5

Memo was a “Robin Hood” who, with his band, robbed the rich to give to the poor. “The Song of Memo” is a folk song in his praise.

FROM THE “EPIC OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR” We who had a pleasant time in this world without spoiling our hands in drudgery could we say that we have lived? It would be the same thing even if we survived for another hundred years there is only today, there is no yesterday; And the end of that hundred years too will come soon. I envy Bedreddin, Darwin, Pasteur, Gorky, Marx, and Edison; Believe me, not for their fame and their reputation, The Mosque of Sultan Selim is still standing in Edrine Though Sinan has passed away A long time ago…

What I envy them for is their having fought and created with love and enthusiasm Yes Sir, their having lived a hundred percent as long as they were alive. *** Jevdet Bey was lost in contemplation of the stars the sky was like a sparkling, phosphorescent sea. The sky was tired, endless, gloomy and warm Jevdet Bey put his glasses on with great seriousness (as if there was a book in the sky and he was going to read it.) - Like slave-ships with black sails lands loaded with men are passing, following each other: Africa, the Pacific Islands, China, India, the Near and Middle East (including Anatolia) without counting the merchants, manufacturers, lords and so on, one and a half billion not match sticks but MEN. One and half billion men are passing through the sky... Jevdet Bey is thinking tirelessly. There are a lot of beautiful things in this world which make life worth living and yet, apple of my eye, the men in the black-sailed ships… For a long time Jevdet Bey could not take out of his mind the image of these black-sailed ships Then a single man sitting, all huddled up, appeared in front of him, he saw him clearly as if he could touch him: he could see him squatting on the quay below and up in the stars. His knees thrust up his hand as furrowed as a ploughed field. - Oh My Lord, thought Jevdet Bey, how can a man be so tired. How many hours does he work every day? twelve? thirteen? fifteen? Who knows what he is thinking about? My God, how little I know about real men. And how strange, they are as much alike as two apples, this man

and for instance a king, an emperor. Both eat, digest and eject In this respect they are no different from the caterpillar, the elephant, or even the artichoke. And the king, the emperor… How did the king - the emperor, get into my mind? I saw him in a film recently, he was watching a football match he was making funny sounds, clapping his hands yes sir, he looks a little like a simpleton. How strange His Majesty’s wife is a member of the grocers’ class Well anyway a freckled, fat woman she should only know what I think of her... Jevdet Bey laughed his big white mustache escaped from between his teeth he looked at the stork sleeping under an orange tree. - How lucky you are, he said, how lucky you are Pilgrim Father you are not able to think. No, I am lying, apple of my eye, to be able to think is happiness, a dreadful happiness sometimes but happiness anyhow. Jevdet Bey put his big mustache back in his mouth he closed his eyes and enjoying his dreadful happiness fell asleep on his easy-chair. I look up; I see a submarine up, high up above my head, yes sir, just like a fish, silent like a fish within its armor, in the water. The light up there is aqua green, yes sir. it’s all green up there, all bright millions of candles are shining up there like so many stars. Up there, Oh... my wandering soul, the first moving flesh of our world is up there, the secret voluptuousness of a silver washbowl, yes sir, the secret voluptuousness of a washbowl with a bird design. And the red hair of the woman in whose arms I am, Up there colorful weeds and rootless trees

and whirling creatures of the ocean world. Up there are life, salt and iodine, our beginning is up there, pilgrim father up there is our beginning. **

Hans Muller from Munich, before he became a submarine sailor in the spring of 1939 was the third private from the right in the fourth squad of the sixth regiment of Hitler’s Storm Troops. Hans Muller from Munich used to love three things: 1—Golden-foamed barley water 2—Anna, plump and white like Prussian potatoes 3—Red cabbage Hans Muller from Munich recognized three duties: 1—To salute his superiors with lightning speed 2—To swear by his gun 3—To stop at least three Jews a day and curse their ancestors Hans Muller from Munich had three fears in his mind, in his heart, on his tongue: 1—Der Fuehrer 2—Der Fuehrer 3—Der Fuehrer Hans Muller from Munich had a happy life until the spring of 1939. And he was surprised to hear Anna with her flesh as white as Prussian potatoes and her voice as stately as the C in a Wagnerian opera complain about the shortage of butter and eggs. He used to tell her: - Just think Anna, I will wear a new battle belt, I will wear shiny boots, You will wear wax flowers in your hair we will walk under swords crossed over our heads. And positively

we will have twelve children, all boys. Just think Anna if in order to eat butter and eggs we don’t make guns and pistols, how could our twelve children fight tomorrow? For they were never born, yes sir, for before his wedding night with Anna Hans Muller went to the war himself. And now, in the autumn of 1941, at the bottom of the Atlantic he is standing in front of me. His thin blond hair is wet bitterness on his red, pointed nose and sadness at the edges of his thin lips. The twelve sons of the native of Munich could not fight Although he is standing next to me, he is looking at me from afar as the dead look at one’s face. I know that he will never see Anna again never drink barley water and never eat red cabbage. I know all these, apple of my eye, but he doesn’t know it, his eyes are a little wet he does not wipe them. He has money in his pocket which does not increase or decrease. And the funniest of all he can’t kill anybody anymore and he can’t die again. Soon his body will swell, and he will go up; the seas will rock him and the fish will eat his pointed nose. Don’t say what a beast, Pilgrim father You too are a beast but an intelligent one. And Jevdet Bey looked fondly at his stork... The perfume of the organe trees pervaded the night. Jevdet Bey and his stork were in the garden. They had brought a radio to the garden. London was giving the Atlantic war news. Jevdet Bey lost in his thoughts, was dreaming he was at the bottom of the Atlantic. Its long red bill hanging on its white breast

its wings clipped short, standing on one leg the stork was dozing. Down in the port, the Mediterranean, naked, like a young mother. ** The comrades are sound asleep Ahmet from Turkestan is sleeping in the hall on his right the Ukrainian Yuncherka the Annenian Sagamanyan on the top bed, the smell of sweating men, of army coats... Ivan sat on his bed and yawning bent down toward his boots. He took off the left one, then lifted up his head and listened: there was a hum outside the door opened wide, the guard yelled: to arms! They jumped up, It was Ivan who was out first, one foot with a boot the other without. The big forest on the south-west is burning the air is like blood flowing ceaselessly the guns are roaring, the guns are roaring… High above an air squadron passed. the first enemy tanks appeared in the south, six steel monsters following each other. The year is 1941 the day June 22, Ivan had never quarreled with anybody in his life, he had never felt hatred toward any nation. ** Under the snow from end to end under the snow the lonely street. Over the snow the partisan: her feet naked her arms tied at her back in underwear, She is walking before the bayonet

going from one end to the other. The guard was cold, they went to the shelter. The guard warmed himself up, they came out. This lasted from ten at night to two in the morning. At two o’clock the guard was changed And the partisan sat Motionless on the wooden bench. The partisan is eighteen years old. The partisan knew that she would be killed soon. To die and to be killed: the difference was small in the flame of her wrath. And she was too young and too healthy to be afraid of death, to grieve. She looked at her bare feet: they were swollen they were frozen and chapped, and red all over. But the partisan was beyond pain. She was wrapped in her anger and her faith just as she was wrapped in her skin. **

Her name was Zoya, she told them she was called Tanya. Tanya! In the Bursa jail, your picture is in front of me. Perhaps you have not even heard the name of Bursa. My Bursa is a green and a gentle place. In the Bursa jail, your picture is in front of me. The year is no more 1941 the year is 1945. Your people are not defending the gates of Moscow anymore At the gates of Berlin your people, our people, all the people of an honest world, are fighting. 1945

ADVICE TO A FELLOW PRISONER Just because you did not give up your hopes, for the world, for your country, and for humanity they either send you to the gallows, or put you in jail, for ten years, for fifteen years or, who cares, for even longer. Never say, “I wish I were swinging at the end of a rope like a flag” you must keep on living, perhaps, living is not a pleasure any more, but it is your duty to spite the enemy to live one more day. In your jail one part of yourself may be all alone like a stone at the bottom of the well But the other part of you should mingle so with the crowds of the world that in your jail you will tremble with every rustling leaf forty days distance away from you. It is sweet but dangerous to wait for letters, and to sing sad songs, to keep awake till morning with your eyes fixed on the ceiling. Look at your face whenever you shave forget your age, protect yourself from lice and from the spring evenings. And then you should never forget how to eat your bread to the last crumb and how to laugh heartily. And who knows, maybe your woman doesn’t love you anymore, (don’t say it is a small matter to the man in jail it is like a young limb broken off the tree). It is bad to dream about the rose and the garden; and good to think of the mountains and the seas

I would advise you, to read and write without any rest, to take up weaving, and to cast mirrors. So it is not impossible to spend ten, fifteen years in a cell or even more, it can be done Provided under your left breast That precious gem The jeweled heart stays bright.

YOUR HANDS AND THEIR LIES

Your hands, solemn like stones; sad, like tunes sung in prison; huge, massive, like draft animals; your hands like the angry faces of hungry children. Your hands, deft and industrious as bees, heavy, like breasts full of milk, valiant as nature, your hands hiding their friendly softness under rough skins. This world does not rest on oxen’s horns, this world is carried by your hands. And men, Oh my men! they feed you on lies, while you are starving while what you need is meat and bread. And without once eating at a white-clothed table to your heart’s content you leave this world and its fruit-laden trees. Oh men, my men! Especially those of Asia, of Africa, of the Near East, the Middle East, the Pacific Islands, and those of my country, who are more than seventy per cent of humanity, like your hands you are old and musing, yet like them, curious, enthusiastic and young. Oh men, my men! My European, my American, you are alert, you are daring, yet forgetful like your hands, and like your hands you are easy to dupe, easy to deceive… Oh men, my men, if the antennas lie, if the posters on the walls lie, and the ad in the paper, if the printing presses lie, if the bare legs of the girls lie on the white screen, if the prayer lies, if the dream lies, if the lullaby lies,

if the tavern fiddler lies, if after a hopeless day the moonlight lies at night, f the words lie, if the colors lie, if the voices lie, if all those who exploit the labor of your hands and everything and everyone lies, except your hands it is to make them pliant like clay blind as darkness, stupid as shepherd dogs and to keep them from revolting and from bringing to an end the money-grabber’s kingdom and his tyranny over this transient though wonderful world where we are for but so short a stay.

ANGINA PECTORIS If the half of my heart is here, doctor, The other half is in China With the army going down towards the Yellow River. And then every morning, doctor, Every morning at dawn My heart is shot in Greece. And then when the prisoners fall asleep, When the last steps go away from the infirmary My heart goes off, doctor, It goes off to a little wooden house, in Istanbul. And then for ten years, doctor, I have had nothing in my hands to offer my people, Nothing else but an apple, A red apple my heart. I watch the night through the bars And in spite of all these walls lying heavily on my chest My heart beats with the most distant star. It is on account of all that, doctor, And not because of arterio-sclerosis, Or nicotine or prison That I have this angina pectoris.

THE FUNNIEST CREATURE Like the scorpion, brother, You are like the scorpion In a night of horror. Like the sparrow, brother, You are like the sparrow In his petty worries. Like the mussel, brother, You are like the mussel Shut in and quiet. You are dreadful, brother, Like the mouth of a dead volcano. And you are not one, alas! You are not five You are millions. You are like the sheep, brother, When the cattle-dealer, clad in your skin, lifts his stick Right away you join the herd Almost proud, you go running to the slaughter-house. So you are the funniest creature Funnier even than the fish That lives in the sea yet does not know the sea. And if there is so much tyranny on this earth It’s thanks to you, brother, If we are starved, worn out, If we are skinned to the bones, If we are crushed like grapes to yield our wine – I can’t bring myself to say it’s all your fault, But a lot of it is, brother. 1948

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY “Let’s fall asleep now and wake up in a hundred years, my beloved. ...” J NO I am not a deserter, Besides my century does not frighten me, My wretched century, Blushing from shame, My courageous century, great and heroic. I have never grieved I was born too soon I am from the twentieth century And I am proud of it To be where I am, among our people is enough for me And to fight for a new world.... “In a hundred years, my beloved.... No, earlier and in spite of everything My century dying and reborn My century whose last days will be beautiful My century will burst with sunlight, my beloved, like your eyes. 1948

THE ENEMIES They are the enemies of the towel weaver Rejep from Bursa the enemies of the fitter Hasan from the Karabuk factory. They are the enemies of the poor peasant woman Matcheh the enemies of the farmhand Suleyman. They are your enemies, my enemies, the enemies of every thinking man. Our fatherland, which is the home of these people, they are, my beloved, the enemies of our fatherland. They are the enemies of hope, my beloved, the enemies of the running water of the fruit-laden tree, of a growing and improving life. For death has put its stamp upon their foreheads - decaying teeth, rotten flesh – They will tumble down and go away never to come back again. And surely, my beloved, surely, in this beautiful country, Liberty will walk around freely will walk around in its most glorious outfit in workingman’s overalls. 1948

SINCE I WAS JAILED Since I was jailed this earth turned ten times around the sun. If you ask the earth "nothing worth mentioning, a microscopic time." If you ask me: "Ten years of my life." The year I was jailed I had a pencil Writing constantly I used it up in one week, If you ask the pencil: "A whole life." If you ask me: "What of it, a couple of weeks." Since I was jailed Osman who was sentenced for manslaughter got out of jail for a while then came back for smuggling served six months and got out again. A letter came yesterday, he is married he is going to have a baby in the spring. The babies who had just been conceived the year I was jailed are ten year old children now. The thin, long-legged fillies of that year Have turned some time ago into comfortable, wide-hipped mares. But the olive shrubs are still shrubs still children. Since I was jailed new public squares have been opened in my distant city and my folks are living in a strange street in a house I have never seen.

The year I was jailed The bread was as white as cotton, then it was rationed, here, inside the jail people fought for a piece of black ration as big as the fist, Now you can buy it freely again but it is black and tasteless. The year I was jailed the SECOND ONE had just started The Dachau crematoriums were not yet burning the Atom bomb had not been dropped over Hiroshima.. Time flew like the blood of a strangled child Then that chapter was officially closed American dollars are now talking about the THIRD ONE. But since I was jailed days nonetheless are brighter. And "From the edge of darkness they pressed their heavy hands against the pavements and stood up" halfway?6 Since I was jailed the earth turned ten times around the sun and with the same insistence I repeat once more in the ten years I spent in jail all I wrote is for them; for "Those who are as numerous as ants in the earth fish in the sea, and birds in the air, Who are cowardly, brave ignorant, learned, and child-like, Those who destroy and create, Only their adventures are in my songs”, 7 and all the rest - say my ten years in jail is just idle talk. 1948

6 7

Quotes from an earlier poem (See “the Epic of the National Struggle.”) Quotes from the same poem as above.

YOU AND ME We are half of an apple The other half is our huge world we are half of an apple the other half is mankind you are half of an apple I am the other half you and me! October 27, 1949

TO PAUL ROBESON They don’t let us sing our songs, Robeson, Eagle singer, Negro brother, They don’t want us to sing our songs. They are scared, Robeson, Scared of the dawn and of seeing Scared of hearing and touching. They are scared of loving The way our Ferhat7 loved. (Surely you too have a Ferhat, Robeson, What is his name?) They are scared of the seed, the earth The running water and the memory of a friend’s hand Asking no discount, no commission, no interest A band which has never paused like a bird in their hands. They are scared, Negro brother, Our songs scare them, Robeson. October 1949

THE FIFTH DAY OF A HUNGER STRIKE Brothers, If I can’t tell you well What I have to tell you You will excuse me, I am slightly dizzy, nearly drunk, Not from raki From hunger, just a little bit. Brothers, Those of Europe, of Asia, of America, I am neither in jail nor on a hunger strike, In this month of May, I am lying on a lawn at night, Your eyes are close over my head, shining like stars, Like the hand of my mother, The hand of my beloved, The hand of life. Brothers, You have never deserted me, Neither me, nor my country, nor my people. As much as I love yours You love mine, I know it. Thanks, brothers, thanks. Brothers, I don’t intend to die, If I am murdered I will go on living among you, I know: I will live in Aragon’s poems - In his lines telling about the beautiful days to come – I will live in Picasso’s white dove, I will live in Robeson’s songs And above all, And best of all, I will live in the victorious laughter of my comrade Among the dockers of Marseilles. To tell you the truth, brothers, I am happy, fully happy. May 1950

GRAFTING The field was ready: Its dark flesh as naked as a newborn child. The field was ready: Its thick damp lips half-open... It did not have to wait too long: At dawn, like small live worms dropping from above the seed started pouring. The earth quivered from pleasure, closing and opening closing and opening she drew in the pouring grain. And then languorous Twice as beautiful Sweaty and swollen the earth stretched. She could now say "I am stronger than death" for she was pregnant... The bees rushed from the hive toward the sun in front the queen, the virgin Her wings as thin and transparent as a delicate hum Her waist slender and fragile Three red belts on her golden haired belly The strongest of the males caught up with her And up above in the sky, close to the sun, thorny, delicate feet intertwined. The grafting lasted but one second The female shook and freed herself The male fell down - its flesh tom apart from high above to the earth. The window of their room opens on the forest Under the heavy summer clouds the forest was dark, damp and warm inside, like the womb. On the face of the man a light, the reflexion of the eyes of the woman below. Suddenly the rain poured over the forest. The woman closed her gray-green eyes,

In her half open mouth her damp teeth, shiny and white, Deep, very deep, in her heart she felt the warmth of the rain... The river is flowing like a beating vein. The tree is standing with its bitter fruits and its thorny branches It is standing useless and wild. The axe shone like a song in the sun The trunk of the tree was cut in the middle The trunk was old, dark and wet it nearly bled. The cut was opened with a grafting knife The end of the stylus thrust in. This cut, this wild trunk, now carried the auspicious token of a whole new world to come with thornless branches thin-skinned, sweet fruits, and wide, broad leaves.

YOU ARE MY COUNTRY You are the field I am the tractor You are the paper I am the typewriter My wife The mother of my son You are a song I am the guitar I am a damp, warm windy evening You are the woman strolling on the quay And watching the lights on the other side. I am the water You are the one who drinks it. I am walking along the street You are the one who opens the window To wave at me. You are China I am the army of Mao-Tse-Tung You are a fourteen-year old Philippine girl I am rescuing you From the hands of an American marine. You are a village in Anatolia on the top of a mountain You are my city the most beautiful and magnificent You are a cry for help, You are my country The footsteps running towards you are mine.

MORNING I woke up. Where are you? In your own home. You still can’t get used To being in your own home when you wake up? It is one of the odd consequences Of staying in jail for 13 years. Who is the one sleeping next to you? It is not loneliness, but your wife She is sleeping soundly like the angels. Pregnancy becomes the woman. What time is it? Eight o’clock You are safe until evening Because it is not customary for the police to raid a house during the day. 1951

EVENING STROLL You are out of jail And no sooner out You made your wife pregnant Offering her your ann You are strolling, in the evening, around your neighborhood Her belly comes up to her nose Gracefully she carries her sacred load. You are respectful and proud. The air is cool A coolness like the hands of a cold baby You feel like taking them in your palms and warming them. The cats of the neighborhood are at the butcher’s door On the top floor his curly wife Her breasts on the window sill watching the evening. The half-lit sky is clear Right in the middle lies the evening star Like a glass of water, bright and shiny. The Indian summer lasted long this year Though the mulberry trees have turned yellow The figs are still green. Shahap the typographer, and the younger daughter of Yani the milkman Have gone out for an evening walk Their fingers clasped. The grocer Karabet’s lights are on. This Armenian citizen has not forgiven The massacre of his father in the Kurdish mountains But he loves you Because you too did not forgive Those who smeared this black stain on the forehead of the Turkish people. The tuberculars of the neighborhood The bedridden patients Are looking through the window panes. The son of the washerwoman Huriye Sadness on his shoulders Is going to the coffee house. Rahnii Bey’s radio is giving the news: In a country in the Far East

People with yellow moon-shaped faces Are fighting a white monster. From your own people they sent there 4500 Mehmets To kill their own brothers. Your face is blushing from anger and shame And not just in general A purely personal a helpless sadness. It feels as if they had pushed your wife from behind rolled her on the ground and she lost her baby; Or as if you were in jail again And they were forcing the peasant-gendarmes To beat the peasants. The night fell suddenly The evening stroll is over A police car turned into your street Your wife whispered: Is it to our house?

A SAD FREEDOM You sell the care of your eyes, the sight of your hands You knead the dough of all earthly goods Without ever tasting a single bite. With your great freedom you slave for others With the freedom of turning into Croesus

Those who make your mother weep You are free. From the moment you are born they climb on your head Their lie-mills grind endlessly throughout your life With your great freedom, your finger pressed to your temple, you think

With the freedom of conscience You are free. Your hanging head seems severed from our neck Your arms are dropping at your sides With your great freedom you roam around With the freedom of the jobless

You are free. You love your country as your dearest friend Some day they sell it, perhaps to America, And you too, with your great freedom, With the freedom of becoming an air base You are free. Wall Street grabs at your throat - their hands be cursed – Some day they send you to Korea perhaps.

With your great freedom you fill a grave.... With the freedom of becoming the unknown soldier You are free. I must live, not as a mere tool, a number, a means,

I must live like a man, you say With your great freedom they fasten your handcuffs With the freedom to be jeered, to be jailed, or even to be hanged You are free.

No iron curtain, no wooden curtain, no lace curtain in your life No need for you to choose freedom

You are free. This freedom is a sad thing under the stars.

THAT IS THE QUESTION All the wealth of the earth cannot quench their thirst They want to make a lot of money You have to kill, you have to die For them to make a lot of money. No doubt they don’t admit it openly They hang up colorful lanterns on the dry branches They send running on the roads glittering lies Their tails all covered with tinsel and spangles. In the market-place they are beating the drums; Under the tents, the tiger-man, the mermaid the headless-man, The acrobats in pink shorts on the straight wire All have heavily made-up faces. To be duped or not to be duped That is the question. If you are not duped you will live If you are duped you will not. 1951