The Hero of a Novel

It was raining on my tent,
The wind was blowing from Saros bay.
And I, the hero of a novel,
On a bed made of hay,
In the Second World War,
Oil lamp at my bedside,
Was trying to live my story
Which began in a city;
Who knows where,
When my story will end.

Orhan Veli (1914-1950). Bir Roman Kahramanı. Translated from the Turkish.

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