Kapı çaldı gece, bir telaş evde,
Buyur eden ses var titreyen sözde,
Sorgusuz uzanır terlikler yerde,
Buyur eden evdir, gönül derinde


Eşikten içeri umut var evde,
“Aç mısın?” sorusu ilk olur dilde,
Kimliği sorulmaz, merhamet elde,
Gelen Hızır’dır beklenir gönülde


Zeytini sayarak yer idi dede,
Balı çıtayla sunardı yine de,
Eksilir sofra da artardı özde,
Bereket gizlenmiş bölünen elde


İsli çaydanlıkta kaynayan hâlde,
Buğulu camlarda titreyen perde,
Yamalı minderler serili yerde,
Muhabbet büyürdü közlü ateşte


Kireç badanalı duvar susar da,
Geyikli halılar bakar masumca,
Bağlama mahzun köşede usulca,
Dertler uykuya varır çay boyunca


Kasketli bir baba, cebinde yokluk,
Sigara dumanı, gözünde tokluk,
Kadın ocak başı, yüzünde bolluk,
Şükürle kurulur o sade varlık



Misafir ağırlanır baş köşede,
En yumuşak yastık hazırdır yerde,
Hızır diye bekler umut her derde,
Eksik sofra çoğalır bereket de


Der ki Mahrumi, bu yoksul hanede,
Gönül zengindir hep, eksik nesnede,
Bir lokma bölünür bin olur yine,
Allah misafiri gelen hâneye




A Guest from God

The door knocked at night, a commotion in the house,
A trembling voice inviting them in,
Slippers lie on the floor without question,
The house is welcoming, the heart is deep within,
Hope is in the house, stepping through the threshold,
"Are you hungry?" The question is first asked in the language,
Identity is not questioned, mercy is in hand,
Every visitor is awaited as Hızır (a legendary figure in Islamic tradition), in the heart.

The grandfather would count the olives before eating them,
He would still offer honey in jars,
The table would diminish but the essence would increase,
Blessing is hidden in the divided hand.

In the sooty teapot, boiling,
The curtain trembling on the foggy windows,
Patched cushions spread on the floor,
Affection would grow in the embers of the fire.

The whitewashed wall would be silent,
The deer-patterned carpets would look innocently,
The bağlama (a Turkish stringed instrument) would sit mournfully in the corner,
Troubles would fall asleep along the tea.

A father in a cap, poverty in his pocket,
Cigarette smoke, satiety in his eyes,
A woman at the hearth, abundance on her face,
That simple existence is established with gratitude.
The best seat is occupied by guests in the house,
The softest pillow is prepared on the floor,
Hopes await Hızır for every ailment,
Missing Abundance multiplies at the table,

Saying Mahrumi, in this poor household,
The heart is always rich, even in what is lacking,
One morsel is divided and becomes a thousand again,
Every guest who comes to this house is a guest of God.