The Sick Man

The struggle for markets has long since begun The looms are stopped, the wheels not turning The weavers bankrupt in all of Anatolia

Factory goods block the caravan routes Mehmish’s baggy trousers are made in Europe The caravansarais are hung with spider webs The feudal horses are kept unsaddled in their stables The peasants, the serfs still do their stint on the land

The Straits have led to a blind alley Illustrious England, Their Imperial Majesties The Tzar, Napoleon and our own Sultan Mejit Sail before the Black Sea wind in full regalia While their fleets anchored in Sebastopol harbour Rend the sky with the thunder of their guns

Empires vie with each other in legerdemain British gold directs the Continent The Sick Man is not cured by the New Order

Shinasi, who fought for freedom on the banks of the Seine, Back in the capital, feels the fever of revolution And opens his eyes to death in his hotel room.

Translated by Nermin Menemencioğlu