Bread

On the tip of my tongue, the name of an old friend,
Forgotten forms carried by clouds;
With the vastness of sky filling my soul,
The pleasure of lying on my back on the grass.

In my hand, the warmth of bread,
Overhead, autumn, as beautiful as its memory;
Engrossed in the pure white, the spotless clouds,
I contemplate, singing a children’s song.

Orhan Veli (1914-1950). Ekmek. Translated from the Turkish.

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