His Poems Are Sung Şiiri - Kasım Kobakçı

Time has come, on an old chair now,
We have to give a lot to live, but to keep alive,
It is one of the works of our Lord to keep everyone alive forever.
Time flies, crushed in the teeth of a piranha fish in the river.

Where can we find it, is there an end to space,
Does time have an end like the vast seas of its ancestor,
Yes, is the color of his ancestor white, time is far away,
Crushed oil like a pinch of black cumin.

And it smells just like a lemon, time has passed,
Expensive free time now,
What do you think in your spare hours,
Kayahan takes his lover to his bosom.

Nazim writes letters to Piraye,
Orhan Veli is listening to Istanbul,
Atatürk is preparing the speech,
Is it an eternal present?

If we go to the future, do we still call it now,
Or how do we go to the past,
We say you are my father, my mother, my brothers, my ancestors, my people.
Whatever the time.

Do eternities fit in our minds?
Let's know something, and let the youngest ideas pour into our minds,
Loneliness is called being alone,
Although time never runs out, it does.

Send my greetings to my father, if you go back to my father,
Among the poets, Kısakürek Necip Fazıl, Zübeyde Hanım and Ata,
And the homeland that made lions, the time that promised conquerors,
Say hello to the endless tale.

In the morning of every night,
My sorrows grieve,
There is no other poet but me now,
They all died,
His poems are sung.