AT MY TOUCH IT TURNS INTO A FADED ROSE

It falls off a lot of people, heaven knows, 
Yet no passerby catches sight of it, 
I bend and pick it up, 
At my touch it turns into a faded rose. 

In one of those big cities 
He wanders at this or that crowded spot 
In the country at a far-off place where he is 
In a hotel room or a coffeehouse; 
Wherever he goes at this late hour 
He sticks his hands into his pockets 
And through cigarettes and pieces of paper 
It gently slips out and goes, 
I bend and pick it up, no one materializes 
At my touch it turns into a faded rose. 

Or it lingers on the lipstick 
That a lonely girl takes off 
On the threshold of another weary night 
When she rests her head on the pillows 
Sometimes at midday it cuddles up to me 
You know it's on that same cloud of sorrows 
That descends mostly at autumn or at rainfall. 
I reach out and clutch it, no one materializes 
At my touch it turns into a faded rose. 

On hands and lips and desolate inscriptions 
It gets caught in nets drawn across the night 
Panting like a wounded animal 
In anguish, he yearns to escape the net's throes 
And to run along the roads or the mementoes. 

Time and time again I take it along, it stays awake all night 
Stirring in darkness, whenever I touch it 
At my touch it turns into a faded rose.


Behçet NECATİGİL


Translated by A. Turan OFLAZOĞLU & Güngör DİLMEN