A Pale Rose When Touched

Though from many so many fall
Passers-by don’t see
I bend down, pick it up
It becomes a pale rose when touched.

Either in a big city
Wandering in crowded stops
Or in a distant part of the country
In coffee houses and hotels
Wherever it is at sunset
Hands put in pockets
It slides gently
Through cigarettes and papers
I bend down, pick it up, no one,
It becomes a pale rose when touched.

Or on a lonely girl’s
Wiped off lipstick
At the start again of a weary night
As upon the pillow she lays her head.

Some come close to me at midday
In autumn mostly and when it rains
On the cloud of sadness that descends
I reach out, pick it up, no one,
It becomes a pale rose when touched.
On hands, lips, solitary scripts
Caught in nets stretched out to evenings
Breathing like wounded animals
Feels depressed, wants to escape
Along roads or memories.

I keep bringing it back, it doesn’t sleep all night
Moving slightly in the dark whenever I touch
It becomes a pale rose when touched.

Behçet Necatigil (1916-1979). Solgun Bir Gül Dokununca. Translated from the Turkish.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s