In poky little rooms pity is lit
In sooty lamps, in sooty lamps.
A secret reflection of each face passing-by is left
On mouldy mirrors, on mouldy mirrors.
Clothes are strewn around, a man is slaughtered
On broken tables, on broken tables.
Slippers a secret are dragging
In dank and dingy hallways, in dank and dingy hallways.
On bare walls the pulse of pain is beating
In nail scars, in nail scars.
The sound of time grinding wood is heard
In attics, in attics.
Weep for those who silently die with no friends
In hotel rooms, in hotel rooms.
Necip Fazıl Kısakürek (1905-1983). Otel Odaları. Translated from the Turkish.