The Marketplace Still Attaches Your Fool To Money One does not sell broken pottery, look for profitable business. A hump on her back your wife Zâra beats the wool Let your hungry children and your animals that wait for fodder not cause you to brood; the marketplace is always there attaching your soul to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you will not go to Nigde... You remain without hope in the marketplace. Your customers hearing your voice say "Halil is still here..." Sell your apples snatched from their branches hope they are all eaten; the marketplace is still there attaching your soul to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you will never go to Nigde... Let indifference not change you, the shenanigans and acrobatics of all sorts - let all that from one direction not tire your mind. The marketplace is always there attaching your soul to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you will never go to Nigde...

Note: Nigde is a prefecture of Turkey, and Bor is a sub-prefecture of Nigde.

White Roses

Sorrows clash
in white roses;
in nocturnal obscurity
water flows noisily,
mirrors transform into a sea.
Her color extends in the flow,
the earth whitens at her approach;
the shepherd's star shatters
and darknesses fall silent
I cannot tear them from myself
for she bonded with me in dying;
the waters flow noisily,
the mirrors transform into a sea.

** Translated from French by Joneve McCormick

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e-mail the poet at uzeyir.cayci@wanadoo.fr
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