P.S. Abdal
(16th century)
I asked the yellow crocuses;
“Where do you spend the winter?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We spend the winter underground”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“What do you live on underground?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We live on bits of the mighty power.”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“Why are your faces so pale?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We draw on the fear of God.”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“Have you father and mother?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
The earth’s our mother, the rain’s our father.”
I asked the yellow crocuses…
Staffs in either little hands,
Scriptures on the tip of tehir tongues,
The crocuses are one with the darwishes
Pir Sultan is with the darwish brothers,
Face full of holly light,
With the white-bearded forefathers,
The crocuses are one with the darwishes.
(Translated by Richard McKane)
(16th century)
I asked the yellow crocuses;
“Where do you spend the winter?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We spend the winter underground”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“What do you live on underground?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We live on bits of the mighty power.”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“Why are your faces so pale?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
We draw on the fear of God.”
I asked the yellow crocuses:
“Have you father and mother?”
“Darwish, what are you asking us?
The earth’s our mother, the rain’s our father.”
I asked the yellow crocuses…
Staffs in either little hands,
Scriptures on the tip of tehir tongues,
The crocuses are one with the darwishes
Pir Sultan is with the darwish brothers,
Face full of holly light,
With the white-bearded forefathers,
The crocuses are one with the darwishes.
(Translated by Richard McKane)
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