How many clouds passed through the lives that has been degenerated under this sky?
how many books have been written?
how many times did I read the last sentences of these books?
birds burning in flames with the people looking on from a distant and passing by
no one carries water to their burning fire.

waves repeat their lullaby
and moss clung on the rock listen to these sighs

What kind of heaven are we living in?
even victories become flowers that soon die
and failures are like a door knocked in the middle of a cold night.

 Translation: M. Kansu / S. Arifler