NAZIM HIKMET

POEMS TRANSLATED BYNILŰFER MIZANOĞLU REDDY

Bare FeetThe Pupils of the Hungry OnesThe Song of the Sun DrinkersA Tale of SeparationTestamentPrison Letters: IstanbulBitkiler IpeklisindenBefore the Time Runs Out, My RoseTo Asian and African WritersFrom the Epic of the National Independence Struggle

The Multitudes1918-1919: The Story of the Black SnakeThe Month of August: Our WomenBlue-Eyed Giant, Tiny Woman and HoneysuckleTo Paul RobesonMy Idea of a SailorTo my UncleTo my Martyred UncleMy own UncleTo my CounctryFor my Martyred UncleFor my Martyred Uncle- 2Samiye’s CatThe Youth[Untitled – 2 poems]In Five Lines

YALNAYAK

BARE FEET

The sunover our headsa turban of fire.parched earth

chariks* for our bare feetBeside usa peasant

more dead than his old mule he's not besideushe's

in our boiling blood. No wrap on theshouldersno whip in handno horse, no cartno gendarmeswe passed throughvillages like bear-densmuddy townsbald mountains.That's how we traveled in that land! We listened

to the sound of stony fields in the watery eyesof the old oxen. We saw that

the earth does not yieldits golden ears of grainto black ploughs.

We didn't travel as if in a dreamNo,we reached one rubbish heap after another. That's how wetraveled in that land.We knowwhat that landis longing for.This longingis made up

like a materialist's mind, this longingis for matter

matter!

Low-lying

* charik – simple peasant shoe made of raw hide

hovelswith dour façadesare lined upin streets like mole holes.Jinn-eyedpigeon-tongued

wearers of fine cotton turbans sit cross-leggedin stores.In front of thempeasants with chapped solesin rawhide chariks.

A burly gendarmedrags a couplewho committedadultery in a field.In the coffee housethe master dervish

hankering after the novice intones deeply"Lahavle-ve-la"spits on the facesof the couple.Over there

in this sleepy squalid run-down townlove is not romantic

Its soul is hungryfor two lively words: STEAMELECTRICITY!

If you're not blind

you can see thatthis soil-faced farmhandand his sunken-chested son

- a survivor of the Caucasus front - have thefingernails of the tax collectorclawing at their headshe wants to be buried right herewith his daughterhis wife

his oxcartclutching the last clump of his soiland die with them

right here

and be buriedwith them.

The mountains and the fields are longing passionately like a desiring

womanfor machines

with souls of steamevery cog with 1000 horsepower becoming iron and ploughing the earth like

churning water!

O gentlemen

with yellow glass belliesthat gurgle like hookahs

O gentlemenriding in your three-horse carriages

sighing â la Pierre Lotito deaf

noselessblind

peasants gentlemenwith bridled mouths

and handsholding pens!

We're sick and tired of your lying tales.From now on

you must getinto your

heads:Peasants are longing for land

and the landis longing for machines!

ACLARIN GOZBEBEKLERI

THE PUPILS OF THE HUNGRY ONES

Not a fewnot five or ten thirty millionhungry ones are ours!

They belongto us!

We belong

1922

to them!The waves belong

to the sea!The sea belongs

to the waves!Not a few

not five or ten30,000,000

30,000,000!

Hungry ones A lined up hungry onesNeither men, nor women, nor boys, nor girlsskinny stunted

crooked trees with crooked branches!Neither men, nor women, nor boys, nor girls

Hungry ones all lined up hungry ones!

They arethe walking scraps

of those parched lands!Some of them

are carrying their bloated belliesthat are knocking against their bony knees!

Some of themnothing but skin only their eyes

are living!

From farall black protrusionsstretch point by pointlike a vein piercing nailof a horseshoemad pupils,pupils!Ah thosethose who have such a pain,those

who stare in such a wayOur pain is endless!endless!endless!Butour beliefs cannot be done away with!Our breasts are hard as ironbecause our pain is

30,000,000

mad pupils!Pupils!

0, man!you listento mewith your mouth wide open!Perhaps behind my backyou call me

"insane"for howling

my heart out!If you are

a gooselike the others

if you can't grasp the meaning of my wordsJust look at my eyes;they are:Mad pupils

Pupils!

1922

GUNESI ICENLERIN TURKUSU

THE SONG OF THE SUN DRINKERS

This is a song:the song of thosewho drink the sun in earthen bowls!This is a tress:a tress of flame!

it is twisting;it is burning like a bloody crimson torch

on the dark brows ofthe heroes with bare copper feet!

I too saw those heroes,I too braided that tress,I too crossed with them

the bridgegoing to the sun!

I too drank the sun in earthen bowls.I too sang that song!Our hearts took their speed from the earthwe stretched ourselves

by tearing the mouthsof golden-maned lions!

We sprang:we rode the lightning wind!

The eaglesswooping

from the cliffsflapped light-gilded wings.Flame-wristed riders whipped

prancing horses!

There is a raid ona raid to the sun!

We will conquer the sunthe conquest of the sun is near!

Those who cry in their housesand carry their tears

like a heavy chainaround their necks

should not travelwith us!

Those who live on the crust of their heartsshould not follow us!

Here:millions of red hearts are burning

in the firethat fell

from the sun!You tootake your heart out from your rib cage;hurl it

into the firethat fell from the sun

throw your heart beside our hearts!

There is a raid ona raid to the sun!

We will conquer the sunthe conquest of the sun is near!

We were born from earth, fire, water, iron!Our wives nurse our babies with the sun,our copper beards smell of the earth!Our joy is hot!

hot like blood,hot like the "moment"

that sizzlesin the dreams of young men

We hook our ladders to the starsstepping on the heads of our dead

we risetoward the sun!

Those who dieddied fighting;

they are buried in the sun.We have no time for mourning.

There is a raid ona raid to the sun!

We will conquer the sunthe conquest of the sun is near!

Red vineyards of blood-speckled grapes are smoky!Heavy brick chimneys

twisting,belching!

The one at the head -He who commands - yells!

This voice!the force of this voice

this forcethat blinds the wounded hungry wolves,

this forcemakes them stop

in their tracks!Order us to die

order!We are drinking the sun in your voice!We are getting high,

getting high!...On the smoky curtain of blazing horizonsriders with sky-ripping lances are running!

There is a raid ona raid to the sun!

We will conquer the sunthe conquest of the sun is near!

The earth is copperthe sky is copper.

Sing out the song of the sun drinkers,Sing out

Let us all sing out!

1924

BIR AYRILIS HIKAYESI

A TALE OF SEPARATION

The man said to the woman:"I love you;and how,Like squeezing my heart in my palmslike something made of glass

breaking itmadly

until my fingers bleed."

The man said to the woman:"I love you;and how

miles and miles deepmiles and miles wide

one hundred percent, five hundred percent,infinity percent."

The woman said to the man:"I have lookedwith my lips, with my heart, with my head;with love, with fear, with reverenceat your lips, your heart, your headWhatever I am uttering nowyou have taught me like a whisper in the dark...And now

I know:That the earth –- like a mother with a sunny face –has suckled her last most beautiful child...But what can I do?

my hair is entangledwith the fingers of the dying one

I cannot freemy head!

You have to keep walkingafter looking into the eyes

of the newborn infant...You

have to keep walking,leaving me behind..."

The woman became silent.

THEY EMBRACED

A book fell to the ground ...A window was shut ...

THEY PARTED ...

1932

VASIYET

TESTAMENT

Comrades, if I don't have a chance to see that day,that is if I die before the liberation,take my bodybury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia.

On one of my sides lies farmhand Osmanshot by Hasan Bey’s hired gun

on my other side martyr Ayşewho died shortly after giving birth on the earth in the rye field.

Let tractors and songs go by the road down the cemetery,in the light of dawn young people and the smell of burning gasoline,the fields belong to everyone, the canals are full of water, nodrought, no fear of gendarmes.

Of course we won't hear these songs,the dead lie stretched under the earth,

the dead decay like black branches,under the earth deaf, dumb and blind.

But I had sung these songsbefore they were made up,

I had smelled the burning gasolineeven before the tractors were designed.

As to my silent neighbors,martyr Ayşe and farmhand Osmanthey bore that great longing all their livesperhaps without even noticing.

Comrades, if I die before that day,

- it looks like it may happen -bury me in a village cemetery in Anatoliaand if it is possible,if there is a plane tree over meno need for a piece of stone, or anything at all...

April 27, 1953Barhiva Sanatorium

PRISON LETTERS: ISTANBUL

1

My darling,heads forward. eyes open as far as onecan see,red glow of burning cities,

trampled cropsendless stamping offeetgo on and on.

And people are slaughteredmore easilymore smoothlyin larger numbersthan the trees and the calves.

My darling,In the din of stamping feet, in this massacreI happened to lose my freedom, my daily breadand you.yet in the midst of hunger, darkness and screamsI never lost my faith for the days to comethat would knock on our door with sunny hands.

2

I am so happy I was born into this world,I love its earth, its light, its struggle and its bread.Even if I know the earth's circumference to the lastcentimeterand not ignorant of its toy-like size next to the sun,I am still awed by the immensity of this world.I would have liked to wander around the worldto see the fish, the fruits and the starsI had never seen before.But I took a trip to Europeonly in books and in picturesI've never received a single letter

with a blue stamp postmarked in Asia.Me and our neighborhood grocer,we are both totally unknown inAmerica.But who cares!From China to Spain, from the Cape of Good Hope toAlaskaIn every sea mile and every kilometer I have friendsand enemies.Friends to whom I've never said Hello,but we are willing to die for the same bread, the samefreedomand longing.

And enemies who thirst for my bloodas I thirst tor theirs.

My strength comes,from not being alone in this big world.

The world and its people are neither the secrets of myheartnor the enigmas of my learning.

Saving my head from exclamation and questionmarks,I took my place

in the great strugglefreely and without worry.

If I am not in this placejust you and the earth

are not enough for me.Although you are very beautiful

and the earth is warm and lovely.

3

I love my country –I have swung on its plane trees,I was locked up in its jails.But nothing can take my blues awaylike the songs and tobacco of my country.

My country –Bedreddin, Sinan, Yunus Emre and Sakarya…Lead covered domes and factory chimneysare the work of my people; their laughterunder their droopy moustaches seems hidden evenfrom themselves.

My country:My country is vast –wandering from place to place it seems endless.Edirne, Izmir, Ulukışla, Maraş, Trabzon, Erzurum…I know the highlands of Erzurum only from songs,I am ashamed that I’ve never crossed the Taurusmountains,to go southward

to meet the cotton pickers.

My country:camels, trains, Ford cars, and sickly donkeys,

poplarswillows

and the red earth.

My country:Pine forests and spring waters,

and the trout that loves the lakes in the mountains;a one pounder, scaleless, silver-skinned with red

specks

swims in Bolu’s lake Abant.

My country:Goats in the plains of Ankara –their long silky light brown hair glistening.Oily big hazelnuts of Giresun.Apples of Amasya with scented red cheeks,olives

figsmelons

and bunches and bunchesof grapes of many colors

and then the black wooden ploughthen the black oxenthen my hard-working, honest and brave peoplewho are ready to welcome everything

progressive, beautiful and goodwith the joyful enthusiasm of children

half hungry, half full,half-slave…

BITKILER IPEKLISINDEN

Plants from silken soft to bushy branching onesanimals from furry to scalyhouses from rough hair-tents to concrete buildingsmachines from airplanes to electric shavers

and also the seas and the water in a glassand the starsand the sleeping mountainsand the human being mingled with everything everywhere

that's sweat on the browlies in the bookstruth liesfriend foelonging joy sorrow

I passed through the crowdwith the crowd that was passing through.

August 14, 1959

HENUZ VAKIT VARKEN GULUM

BEFORE THE TIME RUNS OUT, MY ROSE

Before the time runs out, my rose,

before Paris is burned down and destroyed,before the time runs out, my rose,and my heart is still on its branch,I, one night, one of these May nights,holding you against the wall in Quai Voltaire,must kiss you on the lipsthen turning our faces toward Notre Damewe must gaze at its rose windowmy rose, suddenly you must embrace me,with fear, surprise and happiness,sobbing silently,the stars too must pourmixed with a drizzling rain.Before the time runs out, my rose,before Paris is burned down and destroyed,before the time runs out, my rose,and my heart is still on its branch,In this night of Maywe must pass by the quay

under the willows, my rose,the weeping willows that are drenched.I must tell you the most beautiful couple of words of Paris,

the loveliest and truest,then whistling some airsI must die of happiness

and we must have faith in human beings.

Up there stone houses

without ledges or recessesstuck togetherand their walls are all moonlightand their windows straight up

are sleeping standing upand on the shore across the Louvrebathed in floodlightsour crystal palaceilluminated for us.

Before the time runs out, my rose,Before Paris is burned and destroyed,

before the time runs out, my rose,

and my heart is still on its branch,in this night of May on the quay we must siton the red barrels in front of the warehouses.The canal across fades into darkness.A barge is passing,my rose, let’s say hello,let’s say hello to the barge with the yellow cabin.Is she on her way to Belgium or to Holland?In the cabin door a woman with a white apron

is smiling sweetly.

Before the time runs out, my rose,before Paris is burned down and destroyed,before the time runs out, my rose...People of Paris, people of Paris,You mustn't let Paris be burned and destroyed...

May 13, 1958

ASYA-AFRIKA YAZARLARINA

TO ASIAN AND AFRICAN WRITERS

My brothers and my sistersnever mind my blond hairI am an Asiannever mind my blue eyesI am an Africanwhere I come from trees don't cast shadows down below

just like the ones you havewhere I come from the bread is in the jaws of the lion

and the dragons lie in front of the fountainswhere I come from people die before reaching

the age of fiftyjust like where you come from

never mind my blond hairI am an Asiannever mind my blue eyesI am an Africaneighty percent of my people are illiteratepoems wander from mouth to mouth turning into songspoems can become banners where I come from

just like the ones where you come frommy brothers and my sistersour poems yoked to the skinny ox should be able to till the landour poems knee deep in mud should enter the rice fieldsour poems should be able to ask all the questionsour poems should be able to gather all the lightsour poems like the milestones

should be able to stand at the crossroadssee the approaching enemy before anyone elsebeat the tom-toms in the junglesand until on this earth not a single slave country or slavenot a single atomic cloud remainour poems should be able to give all they havetheir minds, their souls and their lives

for the great freedom.

January 22, 1962Moscow

FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONALINDEPENDENCE STRUGGLE

ONLAR

THE MULTITUDES

Those who are as numerous as ants in the earth,fish in the sea,

and birds in the air;who are cowardly,

brave,ignorant,

learned,and child-like;

those who destroyand create,

only their adventures are in our book.Those who, deceived by the temptations of the traitor,

drop to the ground the flags they were holding,and leaving the enemy in the battlefield

run away home,those who draw their swords against scores of renegades,who laugh like a green tree,cry without reason,and curse mother and wife,only their adventures are in our book.

Ironcoal

and sugarand red copperand textilesand love, cruelty and lifeand all the branches of industryand the sky

and the desertand the blue ocean

and the gloomy river bedsand the ploughed soil and the citiestheir fate changes one morning at dawn,at dawn when from the edge of darkness

they press their heavy hands against the earthand rise.

They are the wisest mirrorsreflecting the most colorful shapes.In our century they were the victors, they were the vanquished.A great deal was said about themand about themit was said:

they have nothing to lose but their chains.

KARAYILAN HIKAYESI

1918-1919

THE STORY OF BLACK SNAKE

We have seen fire and treasonWe have enduredWe have endured everywhereWe have endured in Izmir, Aydinand Adana,We have endured in Urfa, Maraş and Antep.

The people of Antep are sharpshooters,they can shoot a flying crane right in the eye,a running rabbit on its hind leg.They stand on their Arab horsesslender and tall like young green cypresses.

Antep is a hot placeAntep is a tough place

The people of Antep are sharpshootersThe people of Antep are brave.

Black Snakebefore he became Black Snake

was a farmhand in the Antep villages.Perhaps he was contented, or not contented,he had no time to think about such things.

Black Snakebefore he become Black Snakeused to live like a field mouseand was as cowardly as a field mouse.Bravery is possible only with horses, guns and land.

He did not possess horses or guns or land.His neck was as thin as a twig

his head was enormous.

When the enemy entered Antepthe people of Antep

brought him downfrom the pistachio tree

that was hiding his fear.

They put a horse under himand a Mauser rifle

in his hand.

Antep is a tough place.On the red rocks

green lizards roam.In the air hot clouds

drift forward and backward.

The enemy held the hills,the enemy had guns.The people of Antep were held up

in the flat plain.The enemy was pouring shrapnelthe enemy was tearing the earth from its roots.The enemy held the hills

The blood of Antep flew.The shelter of Black Snakebefore he became Black Snakewas a rose bush in the fields.This bush was so tinybut his fear and his head were enormoushe lay flat with his face down

without putting a bullet in his rifle's barrel.

Antep is a hot placeAntep is a tough place

The people of Antep, are sharpshooters.The people of Antep are brave.But the enemy had gunsThe die was cast,

the people of Antepwould abandon the flat plain to the enemy.

Before he became "Black Snake"Black Snake couldn't care lessif Antep was given to the enemy until doomsday,

They had never taught him to think.He lived on earth like a field mouse,and was as cowardly as a field mouse.

His shelter was a rose bush,He was lying flat under the rosebush.

From behind a white rocka black snake

showed its head.Its skin was glistening

its eyes redder than fire,its tongue fork-shaped.

Suddenly a bulletcame and hit its head

the snake fell over motionless.

Black Snakebefore he became Black Snake

seeing the end of the black snakeshouted at the top of his voice

the first thought of his lifeAnd said:"Heed a lesson, my crazy heart,if death finds the black snake behind the white rock,it can find you too even if you hide in an iron trunk."

And when he who had beenas cowardly as a field mouseran and sprang forwardthe people of Antep were aroused

they followed him.They beat the enemy on the hills.And to him who had lived like a field mouse,who had been as cowardly as a field mouse

they gave the name BLACK SNAKE.

Black Snake said: "Let's have a war.Let's bring the fallen heads from Kilis roads,Let's finish up the enemy wherever he is,Shoot brave ones, shoot on our day of honor..."

This is the story we have heardand put in the first chapter of our epic

just as it was told to us;About Black Snake

whose fame lasted for years as the leader of his bandand the people of Antep

and Antep.

KADINLARIMIZ

1922 THE MONTH OF AUGUST

OUR WOMEN

The oxcarts were moving under the moonlightthe oxcarts were going toward Afyon via Akşehirthe land seemed endlessthe mountains were so far away,it looked like the travelers

would never reach any place.

The oxcarts were moving with their solid oak wheelsand they

were the first wheels turning in the moonlightUnder the moonlight the oxenwere puny and short

as if they had come from a different tiny planet,their sickly, broken horns twinkledbeneath their feet flowed

the earth,the earth

and the earth.

The night was light and hotand in the oxcarts the dark blue grenadeslay uncoveredAnd womenwithout letting each other knowwere eyeing in the moonlightthe dead oxen and wheels left by the previous convoysAnd womenour women:with their terrible blessed hands

with their delicate small chins and enormous eyesour mothers, our wives, our sweethearts

those who die as if they had never livedand whose place at our table

comes after our oxen's,those whom we abduct and then end up in prison,those in wheat and tobacco fields,in gathering wood and in marketsthose harnessed to the black ploughsthose in stablesin the glimmer of shiny knives stuck in the groundwith their swaying heavy hips and cymbals

women belonging to us,our women.

Now under the moonlightfollowing the oxcarts and cartridge boxesthey moved with the same lightness at heartthe same tired familiarityas though they were pulling the amber spiked stalks

in the threshing fieldsand inside the steel crates of shrapnelscrawny-necked children were asleepAnd the oxcarts under the moonlightwere going toward Afyon via Akşehir.

BLUE-EYED GIANT, TINY WOMAN ANDHONEYSUCKLE

He was a blue-eyed giant.He loved a tiny womanwho dreamed of a tiny house.

A house with a gardenwhere many-colored honeysuckle

bloomed.

The giant loved as a giant loves.His hands were meant

for gigantic tasks.He could neither build the frame

nor ring the bellof a house with a garden

where many-colored honeysucklebloomed.

He was a blue-eyed giant.He loved a tiny woman.The woman was very, very tiny.She was hungry for a life of ease,

she'd worn herself out on the giant's grand path.Saying goodbye to the blue-eyed giant,she took the arm of a wealthy midget

and entered the house with a gardenwhere many-colored honeysuckle

bloomed.

So now the blue-eyed giant can seeit cannot even be a tombfor the great love of a giant,

that house with a gardenwhere many-colored honeysuckle

bloomed.

TO PAUL ROBESON

They don't let us sing our songs, Robeson,my songbird with the wings of an eagle,my Black brother with the pearly smile,they don't let us sing our songs.

They are afraid, Robeson,afraid of the dawn,afraid to see, to hear, to touch –afraid to cry like the rain washing a naked body,afraid to laugh like sinking one's teeth into a hard quince.They are afraid to love, to love like Ferhad2

(surely you too must have a Ferhad, Robeson,what is his name?)

They are afraid of the seed, of the earthand of the running waterafraid to remember the hand of a friend,asking no discount, no commission, no interest –a hand that has never alightedlike a lively bird in the palms of their hands.They are afraid of hope, Robeson, afraid of hope, hope!They are afraid, my songbird with the wing of an eagle,they are afraid of our songs, Robeson.

October 1949

MY IDEA OF A SAILOR

Steel hand, iron wrist, strong armand piercing eyes,

A broad chest and a sharp salute.All we need is the rolling seas...

Copper faced, hot-blooded, full of life,

2A legendary lover in Turkish folklore

A Turkish lad.He's the peerless pearl of the seas.That's my idea of a sailor.

December 3, 1914

DAYIMA

TO MY UNCLE

You did not dieYou did not dieYou're still livingYou will always liveIn the heart of your country.

SEHIT DAYIMA

TO MY MARTYRED UNCLE

My martyred uncle, don't lamentThat you must be avengedBe calmDon't look at me and make me trembleYes, you will be avengedYou're the son of the martyrsYou will be avengedYou're the grandson of the Oguz.

BENIM DAYIM

MY OWN UNCLE

My uncle! My uncle! He was a great heroHe was the oneWho made my Turkish breast swell with prideHe showed me great feats of heroismAlways teaching me about great sacrificesShowing the proper wayAnd suggesting the greatnessOf giving your lifeFor your country

1915

VATANA

TO MY COUNTRY

Ah my poor countryWhy is she crying like thisWhy because her childrenDon't take good care of her

Son - If I don't take good care of youI should not deserve to be a TurkLook mother we're goingTo die for the countryI'll go I'll dieI won't come back

Mother - Go my son goServe your countryShed your bloodGive all that you have for herSay goodbye to your betrothed, to your villageSay goodbye to all that you have

Son - Mother I am goingGive my regards to my fatherTell my belovedNot to cry for me

March 8, 1915

SEHIT DAYIMA MABAT

FOR MY MARTYRED UNCLE

The skies will reverberateTo avenge youThe seas will roarTo avenge youMy martyred uncle, don't lamentBe calmDon't look at me like thatAnd make me tremble

FOR MY MARTYRED UNCLE - 2

He was the one who showed me the meaning of the OrientHe was the one who taught me the arts of the TurksThat's why I love my uncleIn my heart I always keepThe highest respect for him.

June 1915

SAMIYE'NIN KEDISI

SAMIYE'S CAT

Her eyes were green like the seasHer white fur a heap of snowHer mouth adorned with mother-of-pearl teethHer amorous gaze touched our souls

When we loved her she fooled us and ran awayWhen we caressed her she showed her clawsShe had the pride of a womanLies poured out of her kohl-blackened eyes

GENCLIK

THE YOUTH

To My Father

Cry over the tombstones of your friendsFor four years they were dying everywhereToday with their sacred sentimentsThe pitiful youth tells you to shut up

Write with sorrow the elegy of thoseWho spilled their blood at the frontRaise your voice in these years of griefFor those who spilled their blood at the front

Look at Anadolu without a sigh of lamentAwaiting faithfully its final hourThe road of the sky-high mountainsIs covered with the bones and souls of brothers

Go cry on those desolate roads todayFor four years they kept dying all overToday with their sacred sentimentsWhen they say shut up to you... Shout! Ah youth!

Winter 1920, Kadikoy

The air is like strained honeyI went out hunting in the afternoonI fell in love with a gazelleGazelles have black eyesBut my gazelle has green eyesI dragged myself after herspitting bloodAcross from me opened the gate of Paradise

1949

You'll lie under the sun all naked

with your green eyesI'll bend over youI'll look at youas if I am watching

the most amazing event of the universe

You'll put your arms around my neckYour weight full of life around my neckI'll taste immortalityFrom your bright red mouth

1949

IN FIVE LINES

To be able to defeat the liesfrom mothers' lullabies to the newscaster's words,

the lies in the heart, in the book, in the street,to understand, my love, that wonderful happiness,to understand what is gone and what is to come.