People Lie Dead In Istanbul Under Cypresses

People lie dead in Istanbul under cypresses,
Or he lives as if he were dead, to reach under the cypress as soon as possible.
He sees the green when he lies down, gets power from it, rises above it.
It lives in gray for decades, in need of a starry night.

But everyone has patience, there is a bang; He said "not that much".
But everyone has a credit card, lots of debt,
Child's school expenses and housing loan, car payments, goods installment.

All the values we produce, sold until we die,
And all the worthlessness we let go.
Translation of “Yes sir basket sir” into foundation language,
The language of the barracks, the language of the factory; This is a life made in brine, “boys-girls”.

For this, we are waiting at the gate of the cemetery; between the school and the wards;
They nailed our names to a concrete sky; frozen, plaster steps,
Those who took the road before us; we also leave our steps to those after us...

Now, pomegranate seeds falling from the cracks opened by lightning into the sky,
It turns on our heads, as if heralding a hard nut generation,
Of course, the blood does not stay on the ground, even of the Anatolian leopard. “There is no one, even you have no one”.

They are not longing for water and gas; however, these beauties billed,
If offered free of charge; should ask someone who knows; where is the source of income; from taxes?
Let the next mobilization songs come to all those catapults that beat us with the money they took from us.

They say, "We can only protect these green areas if you have a grave."
Obviously these marriage houses, their "stay away" towers, their living rooms, their sofas.
Their artistic sensibility is evident in buildings such as slaughterhouses, prisons, barracks, and control centers.

What base befits such a generation, “three children like me”; “three fathers like you”; "three grandparents like him",
Which subway to go to, the characterlessness of a city and those who manage it...
What thorny fruit will grow from all those fields you burned, it's not fallow, it's yours...

People lie dead in Istanbul under cypresses,
Or he lives as if he were dead, to reach under the cypress as soon as possible.
In fact, if he dies in Istanbul, it's too much if you want, let's not go over it.
You're already digging your own grave, in this flat swamp.