A voice everyday shakes my heart,
Repeats, whenever the clock strikes:
“What about your land, where is your harvest?
Empty-handed, will you go into the night?
You’re half way through life, just think!
It comes and goes, that’s youth;
Despondent and dismayed, you’re left;
From window to window, you run.”
O the days I did not appreciate,
The bouquet of roses thrown away, not smelt,
The fountain, its water wasted,
The blowing wind, the sails not raised!
Yet, the waters flow westward,
In the trees, the nightingale’s song is changed,
Shadows settle on my window;
O memoirs, your days are beginning.
Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı (1910-1946). Gençlik Böyledir İşte. Translated from the Turkish.