He's passing before me, through sirens
Ah, on the hands, within flowers
The sorrow of a half-finished love is on his lip
His lion-like breast is within folk songs
I used to come upon at the courtyard while I was always marching up and down
smoking a cigarette or being beaten by a stick
He used to speak with no-one and shiver as a branch
While he was watering the flower that he loved childishly
He was from Diyarbakır, his name is Bahtiyar
His crime was playing "saz" as far as I know
He is passing before me, rose faced Bahtiyar
I am wounded as much as his "saz" that stayed on the ground
They let me free soon, he stayed there inside
I later found out that he was on exile in Yozgat
They fell upon him because of everything he did
They restricted the blue skies to him
It was published on newspapers as a three line story
With his lengthened beard and cracked "saz"
Somebody was saying "you didn't die" to him
On his death notice, he was smiling with sorrow