Nazim Hikmet

1940

Four o’clock,

no you.
no
Six, seven,
tomorrow,
the day after,
and maybe-
who knows…

We had a garden
in the prison yard.
About fifteen paces long,
at the foot of a sunny wall.
You used to come,
and we’d sit side by side,
your big red
oilcloth bag
on your knees …

Remember “Head” Memed?
From the juveniles ward.
Square head,
thick short legs,
and hands bigger than his feet.
With a rock he’d brained a guy
whose hive he robbed of honey.
He used to call you “lady sister”.
He had a garden smaller than ours
right above us,
nearer the sun,
in a tin can…

Do you remember a Saturday,
a late afternoon sprinkled
by the prison fountain?
The tinsmith Shaban sang a song,

remember:

“Beypazari is my home, my city -
who knows where I’ll leave my body?”

I did so many paintings of you,
and you didn’t leave me even one.
All I have is a photograph:
in another garden,
very at ease,
very happy,
you’re feeding some chickens
and laughing.

The prison garden didn’t have any chickens,

but we could laugh all right
and we weren’t unhappy.
How we had news
of beautiful freedom,
how we listened for the footsteps
of good news coming,
what beautiful things we talked about
in the prison garden…