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Those who die where they're born

while passing through a town in the steppe
on the dusty road, coffeehouses on both sides
calm as they are, motionless
eyeing the bus
those who die where they are born
 
in the hot noon-ends, *
the breeze of abysmal wells
leaking of the chilled pots
the sun rolls away in an instance
and beacons shiver in the nights
they never complain
those who die where they are born
 
in a village at the mountain top
under the snow a girl gracile as a branch
destined to the village like mount munzur
is the laughter around the fountain
 
the world doesn't spin for them
they don't know of being wayworn
their voices echo
always from the same rock, from the same timezone
they travel to china n' maçin in their dreams
those who die where they are born
 
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Zülfü Livaneli: Κορυφαία 3
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