To the s o l d i e r s k i l l e d at Çanakkale
From a poem b y : Knhmei A k if l o o k at the mountains and r o c k s
Strewn with the b o d i e s o f m a r t y r s . . .
Those heads th a t would n ever bow down, i f n ot in p r a y e r ; What suns are s e t t i n g , 0 God, f o r the sake o f a c r e s c e n t . There he l i e s s t r t c h e d , w ith a shot in h i s h onest b r o w . . .
Oh s o l d i e r , you who have f a l l e n on the ground w h ile d e fe n d in g i t That our f a t h e r s descehd from heaven t o k i s s your pure brow,
I t were m eet.
How g r e a t you are s in c e your b l o o d i s sa vin g the U n ity . Only the l i o n s a f Bedr a t t a in e d such g l o r y .
Who can d i g the grave th a t w i l l n ot be t o o narrow f o r you? I f I should s a y , " Come l e t us bury you i n h i s t o r y /
That would be i n s u f f i c i e n t t o o .
That book c o u ld not c o n t a i n the ages which you have a l t e r e d s o . E t e r n i t i e s alone can h o ld y o u .
I f I e r e c t the Kaba at the head o f your grave Saying, "T h is i s your s t o n e " ,
And i n s t i l l i n t o i t the r e v e l a t i o h I f e e l in my s o u l ; ,
And then i f I take the v a u l t o f heaven w ith a l l i t s spheres And p u l l i t , as a c o v e r , over your b l e e d i n g g r a v e ;
I f I b u i l d a r o o f over your open mausoleum w ith A p r i l c l o u d s , And hang from th e r e the P l e ia d with i t s seven lamps;
As yon l i e wrapped ¿la your b l o o d under t h i s c h a n d e lie r I f by n ig h t I b r i n g the m oonlight b e s id e you,
And make i t keep watch by your mausoleum t i l l break o f day;
I f by day I illu m in e your c h a n d e l ie r with the b r i g h t n e s s o f dawn In the e v e n in g s i f I wrap your wound w ith the v e i l s o f su n se t, S t i l l I cannot say I have been able
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