Like a teardrop, years
Have rolled down the saintly old man’s cheeks.
Autumn, its leafy hair lying on the ground,
Is weeping at his feet.
Gazing into the red horizon,
His eyes, full of darkness inside.
On his forehead, the faint trace of evening’s sadness,
On his lips, the silence’s secret.
Like a small line burning along paper,
He is darkened in the evening.
He is now a memory erased,
In the remote parts of the garden.
Necip Fazıl Kısakürek (1904-1983), Bahçedeki İhtiyar. Translated from the Turkish.