Fly birds, fly to my homeland,
There are purple hyacinths on its mountains.
A cool river runs through its forests,
Among thorns there are yellow roses.
Its little stream runs slowly, is it weary?
Its moonlight, is it ailing or just pale?
Its sadness…is it like a bride in mourning?
Its mighty mountain top, a black veil wearing.
My good days there were spent,
I remember, I lament.
I recite, listen to the story of my life,
I have a nightingale from there, inside.
Fly birds fly! No trueness here!
No running streams, no such climate here!
Of my cry for help, no echo here!
A place of fire, just cold ashes here.
Oh Rıza, your sorrow is overwhelming,
Your suffering from the pain of love never ending,
Within you – like waters – always overflowing,
There is always a restless heart!
Rıza Tevfik (1869-1949). Uçun Kuşlar. Translated from the Turkish.