We present this work in honor of the 40th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

When you step over the doorstone, your heart is refreshed
Neither a stain on the stony ground, nor a trace on the wood
This very charming little home smells of soap, winter and summer
Its tablecloths are snow white, its curtains are snow white.

From every corner an elegant feminine taste is shining
In everything there is the eye-straining work and labour of a woman
A delicate young woman is the mistress of this home
Like a shy river, her voice is purling in the heart

Her eyes are dreamy, soft, deep
“Home” is a temple to her, “love of family” is her religion!
She never lacks babies around her
While one of them jumps, the other crawls

Her entire life belongs to the children, to the home
Her thin face resembles a three-night moon
Whatever your position or age is
Wouldn’t you bow your head in front of this woman?

Translation by Fatma Fulya Tepe