I asked the yellow crocuses:
                                                                              `What do you live on underground?'
                                                                               `Dervish, what are you asking us?
                                                                               We live on bits of the mighty power.'

                                                                               I asked the yellow crocuses:
                                                                               `Why are your faces so pale?'
                                                                               `Dervish, what are you asking us?
                                                                               We draw on the fear of God.'

                                                                               I asked the yellow crocuses:
                                                                               `Have you father and mother?'
                                                                               `Dervish, what are you asking us?
                                                                               The earth's our mother, the rain's our father.'

                                                                               I asked the yellow crocuses...
                                                                               Staffs in their little hands,
                                                                               Scriptures on the tip of their tongues,
                                                                               The crocuses are one with the dervishes.

Pir Sultan is with the dervish brothers,
Face full of holy light,
With the white-bearded forefathers,
The crocuses are one with the dervishes.
 
 
 

I praise thy hand clever with the pen,
Scribe, write the Shah about my plight.
Thy sweet tongue deserves praises,
Scribe, write the Shah about my plight.

For God's sake scribe, write it like it is,
Night and day for the Shah I prayed,
May this bloody Sivas lie in ruins,
Scribe, write the Shah about my plight.

My swan song is heard all over Sivas,
Pine-covered hills are torn with strife.
Separated from friends - I am distraught,
Scribe, write the Shah about my plight.

The troublemaker runs the place as he pleases,
As deadly pallor settles on our rosy cheeks.
The imposter laughs away carrying his base deeds,
Scribe, write the Shah about plight.

Hey, Hizir Pasha! I'm called Pir Sultan Abdal,
Burning with desire to see my kith and kin again,
See what destiny you've conjured up for me,
Scribe, write the Shah about my plight.

So many are my sufferings, which shall comsume me
                    The wounds of my heart again are raw.
For my sufferings, where shall I find remedy,
                    If there be cure only from the hand of the Shah.

All her garments are finer than the rose.
                    Do not scorn the nightingale; it is unfitting of the rose.
Such longing have I endured, my heart is bruised.
                    Easily come the fragments of my soul.

My tall and graceful cypress, my plane tree.
                    A fire strikes my heart; I blaze.
Toward you I pray, I turn always facing you.
                    My prayer niche is between your two brows.

Love is not fulfilled with glances,
                    Who flees from love is not a man.
The candle is not put out by the breath of a denier,
                    Once afire, the light of passion burns.

I am Pir Sultan, so much you have let yourself fall.
                    Without greeting, you come and you pass by.
Why do you flee this loving affection?
                    Is this to be the emblem of our way?
 
 

A lout has entered the loved one's garden,
A jungle, my lovely one, a jungle.
He tored the rosebud from the stem,
It's withered, my lovely one, it's withered.

I spread my rug in the public square,
I saw the loved one, thanks to the Lord.
Some day black soil shall cover me,
I'll rot, my lovely one, I'll rot.

You read that which you have written,
God has blessed your crescent brows,
Your cousins walk in Paradise,
The houris, my lovely one, the houris.

Whatever your faith shall be my faith,
Though Judgment Day break me tomorrow,
If I may kiss your milky throat,
Come near, my lovely one, come near.

I'm Pir Sultan, I begin from the First,
I take the good, reject tha bad,
A thousand flowers to fill one hive,
Like the bee, my lovely one, the bee.
 
 

Turkish Verse, Nemin Menemencioglu, Penguin Books, 1978,
Spiritual Discourse, Frances Trix, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993.
An Anthology of Turkish Literature, Kemal Silay,
Indiana University Turkish Studies & Turkish Ministry of Culture Joint Series XV, 1996.
 
 

The rough man entered the lover's garden
It is woods now, my beautiful one, it is woods,
Gathering  roses, he has broken their stems
They are dry now, my beautiful one, they are dry

In this square our hide is stretched
Blessed be, we saw our friend off to God
One day, too, black dust must cover us
We will rot, my beautiful one, we will rot

He himself reads and He also writes
God's holy hand has closed her crescent eyebrows
Your peers are wandering in Paradise
They are free, my beautiful one, they are free

Whatever religion you are, I'll worship it too
I will be torn off with you even the Day of Judgement
Bend for once, let me kiss you on your white neck
Just stay there for a moment, my beautiful one, just stay there

I'm Pir Sultan Abdal, I start from the root
I eat the kernel and throw out the evil weed
And weave from a thousand flowers to one hive honey
I am an honest bee, my beautiful one, an honest bee.

Pir Sultan Abdal
Translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat  (Talisman 1991 (Spring 6))