On The Roads of Sivas

Cahit Külebi

ON THE ROADS OF SİVAS

On the roads of Sivas, at night
The oxcarts go in files
Their wheels are made of oak
What do they carry, those silent peasants
Timber, salt, or their sick?
Slowly the oxcarts go
On the roads of Sivas, at night.

No stars swarm in the sky
No hearts are warm with love
The wind blows sharp as a knife
Chill on hands and feet
On the roads of Sivas at night
Slowly the oxcarts go.

Lorries pass back and forth
In a cloud of dust
Flashing their headlights
The oxcarts scatter, the lorry-drivers swear
On the roads of Sivas at night
The oxcarts go in files.

Translated by Nermin Menemencioğlu