Ingiliz sair, roman ve deneme yazari Sir Stephen Spender’in olum yildonumu ( 16 Temmuz 1995 )
Yabanci bir ulkede oturan yoksul kiz,
Kafatasi biciminde isitilariyla gecenin
Yazdoneminde parlayan uzak ay gibi
Gozlerinin icinden bakar her yana olum
Oyle dik ve derin:
Yoksul cocuk, giymissin yazlik giysilerini
Ve altin cizgili yirtik ayakkabilarini
Toprak ana renk cimen
Ve cicek mantosunu giyindigi gibi
Orterek yikim magaralarini
Oyuk olumlerin soyledigi.
Yureklerimizde sanki de saftlaridir kuyularin
O cokmus gozler ki bakiyorum derinden
Bilmem gunahi nedir onlarin
Bu yapmacik sevinc gosterisinde
Dudaklarimizin arkasinda uslarimiz
Birlesir aglamakta
Uyku icinde hic uyumayan
olumluluge.
Aglamanin yarari ne?
Bir cerrah bicagi tasimiyor ki
Kessin yasaminin kokunde
Yanlis cogalan hucreleri
Sevginin asiriliklari kanitlar yalniz,
Tenin otesinde uzanir cirkin kemige
Karanlikta sirtlanlarda uluyan bir ses.
Bir dusunudur uzgunlugum, bir dustur,
Yarinin firtinasi alip goturecek:
Uyanmaz gun gunden daha dinc
Gorunusten ote salt dogru olana:
Ya da yataginin cevresindeki granit gerceklere
Yoksullugun kahriyla umutsuz, cirkin
Gercege ki bir belirtisidir
Yakinda oleceginin.
Poor girl, inhabitant of a strange land
Where death stares through your gaze,
As though a distant moon
Shone through midsummer days
With the skull-like glitter of night:
Poor child, you wear your summer dress
And your shoes striped with gold
As the earth wears a variegated cover
Of grass and flowers
Covering caverns of destruction over
Where hollow deaths are told.
I look into your sunk eyes,
Shafts of wells to both our hearts,
Which cannot take part in the lies
Of acting these gay parts.
Under our lips, our minds
Become one with the weeping
Of the mortality
Which through sleep is unsleeping.
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Of what use is my weeping?
It does not carry a surgeon's knife
To cut the wrongly multiplying cells
At the root of your life.
It can only prove
That extremes of love
Stretch beyond the flesh to hideous bone
Howling in hyena dark alone.
Oh, but my grief is thought, a dream,
Tomorrow's gale will sweep away.
It does not wake every day
To the facts which are and do not only seem:
The granite facts around your bed,
Poverty-stricken hopeless ugliness
Of the fact that you will soon be dead.



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