Pinwheel

From everywhere, the scent of roses,
Drifting with the breeze from distant gardens.
Winds from the west, north east, east and south
Tempt my soul away.

Where, I wonder, is the secret Spring?
The wind, where does it get this fragrance?
Are there other climates?
Neither dawn nor twilight tell.

Horizons call me some days,
Towards the land of love, the journey starts;
A child, a petalled pinwheel in his hand,
Is blowing it, looking at my face.

Ahmet Kutsi Tecer (1901-1967). Rüzgargülü. Translated from the Turkish.

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