Şeyh Bedreddin Destanı

The Epic of Sheikh Bedreddin

it was hot
hot
it was a bloody knife, dull and crooked
hot
it was hot
clouds were heavy
clouds were about to burst
it was going to pour
he looked without moving
from the rocks
two eyes like eagles descended to the plain
there, the softest, the hardest
the most frugal, the most generous
the most loving
the biggest, the most beautiful woman
the earth was almost ready to give birth

it was hot
he looked from the Karaburun mountains
he looked at the horizon at the end of this land, furrowing his brow
picking wildflowers like bloody poppies
screaming naked, dragging behind him
from afar, a fierce fire was coming, engulfing the horizon
this was Prince Murat
his imperial decree had been issued in the name of Prince Murat
reaching the enlightened hand, it would descend upon the head of Bedreddin's caliph, Muhid Mustafa
it was hot
Bedreddin's caliph, Muhid Mustafa looked
he looked at the peasant Mustafa
he looked without fear, without anger, without a smile
he looked straight and true
he looked at the
softest, the hardest
the most frugal, the most generous
the most loving
the biggest, the most beautiful woman
the earth was almost ready to give birth
Bedreddin's warriors looked from the rocks to the horizon
this land's end was approaching with the wings of a death bird bearing a decree
those looking from the rocks, saw it
grapes, figs, pomegranates
feathers golden as honey
milk darker than honey
with slender-waisted, lion-maned horses
they had opened like a boundless, wall-less brother's table
it was hot
he looked
Bedreddin's warriors looked at the horizon
softest, hardest
the most frugal, the most generous
the most loving
the biggest, the most beautiful woman
the earth was almost ready to give birth, it was going to give birth
it was hot
clouds were heavy
almost like a sweet word, the first drop was about to fall to the ground
suddenly
like pouring from the rocks, raining from the sky, sprouting from the ground
like the last gift of this land
Bedreddin's warriors faced the prince's army

seamless white-clad, barefoot and sword-bare
exaggeration was in battle
the enlightened Turkish peasants
chewing gum Greek sailors
Jewish tradesmen
ten thousand important companions of Börklüce Mustafa
plunged into the enemy forest like ten thousand axes
take the flags, green
the shields were embossed, the bronze helmets were torn apart but
in the pouring rain as the day descended into evening
thousands remained two thousand
singing a song in unison
all together pulling the weight of the waters
working the iron like embroidery, all together
being able to plow the land together
being able to eat the honeyed figs together
being able to say together in everything, everywhere except for the beloved's cheek
thousands gave eight thousand of them

they were defeated
the victors wiped their swords on the seamless white shirt of the defeated
and like a song sung together, the blood of their swords
the land worked by brotherly hands
in the Edirne palace, the horses bred were matched with their shoes
this is the inevitable result of historical, social, and economic conditions
I say
I know
I bow my head before the object you speak of
but this heart
it doesn't understand much from this tongue
it says "oh you treacherous fate, oh you deceitful time"
and one by one
in an instant
with whip marks on their shoulders, faces covered in blood
they pass, stepping on my heart with their bare feet
they pass the defeated from the enlightened hands of Karaburun
friends
I know
friends
I know where he is, in what state
I know he went and won't come back again
I know a bleeding body is nailed to a cross on a camel's hump
friends let me go, let me go
friends let me reach and see Börklüce Mustafa from Bedreddin's followers
two thousand men will be executed, Mustafa and the cross
the executioner has everything ready, everything is set
with a red silk embroidered head, golden stirrups, a red horse
on the horse, a thick-browed boy, the prince of Amasya, Sultan Murat
and beside him, the Bayezid Pasha to whom I don't know which banner belongs

the executioner swung the sword
bare necks burned like pomegranates
like apples falling from a green branch, heads fell one after another
and as each head fell to the ground
Mustafa looked one last time
and the hair of every head that fell did not tremble
"Iriş, my sultan, Iriş," said one
he said no other word.