To a pitch-black palace colours have retired;
Everything is equal now: It is night.
Aligned are wells and minarets;
Everything is either dwarf or giant.
A sudden onslaught of waters to memory;
What is beginning, or perhaps ending, is agony.
Minds are now like mirrors to a mystery;
A mysterious riddle, extraordinary.
Fear is such a fear that it is mingled with the air;
And silence is an avalanche of thought;
Every move is peaceful and slow.
As if in the void, a hand a bag holds;
Laughing, weeping heads into it fall.
Night may be an effect, not a cause.
Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı (1910-1956). Gece Bir Neticedir. Translated from the Turkish.