Did I rise to the skies or fall back to the land?
Has fate struck down my star with its heavy hand?
Endure the world’s sorrow, its grief and its fire—
From pain draws the seeker the wisdom they desire.
He who tends the lodge, with patience and grace,
Will surely one day earn his place at the feast’s embrace.
I can’t call a crow what a nightingale sings,
Nor call a thorned bush the queen of spring.
Each man thinks his own deeds are fine—
Even the raven sees its chick as divine.
İbrahim Şinasi
Translated by: Mehmet Barın Erturan
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