(You have to go to school)
Our savings are limited.
The light of our desires reflected to egoism.
Or we limited our humanly side.
We slapped ones who light candle for the darkness.
I had some professors who were writing the fate of the ones who were shooting bullets to the border of peace.
What literature requires is done.
I looked for the hands of my ancestor.
I am sickened of reining my ten hands to the clamps raised in chair every year.
My year became sour again.
My people applauded.
And I broke my hand.
Bridges we couldn’t pass cried behind us.
Like bread crumbs fallen to the ground.
The innocent handcuffed under suspicion.
And some grinned.
Let official cars pass.
Every passenger is a posteriori.
Give the hammer to opening chins to nail.
Written rules exceeded theories.
This writer with broken fingers didn’t quail.
What would be difference if you were a scholar?
Caesar disappeared by choking his aim around him.
Your ancestors became soil. Look there is grave.
One who defends with lie met the honest.
One who kicked out raced with his hatred.
One who was far from money met the weapon.
One who crossed with life made peace with death.
Chorus x2
Treason is knee-deep.
Secular situation is tied to bitter fate.
Work is done.
Our tactics are breathless.
Didactic books are wood in a stove.
And the stones and soil of the country is mixed with gravel.
My professors are in a protest movement.
My scholars are excommunicated.
Didactic books are wood in a stove.
I have been studying for exactly 15 years long.
I run away from school.
I was broken at my yesterday.
Nowadays I realized that I grow as rote, monotonic.
I left my knowledge in the notebooks I dumped.
And there is no question papers in front of me anymore.
Like it couldn’t be an answer to the questions asked.
I am the one who stand idle by the answers given.
I am the pillage.
I am in the middle. This huge city around me.
A poison composed of smoke in my hand.
Thousands of childhood among the (so-called) people who have bath with arrogance.
Waiting for their future to put it into their bags.
I was that, I am this know.
We couldn’t find our way by looking forward.
We couldn’t reach our way by opening our eyes.
We couldn’t keep our promises and step forward.
We defame our names but couldn’t clean it.
We are shameful to our ancestors.
Now dear professor I am asking
Are you regretful?
The future is your work.
A generation of knowing by heart is on its way.
They passed at red, without waiting for green.
Every rascal who find an opportunity to something.
Became a clamp and ate my country with real pleasure.
You signed their diplomas.
Now dear professor I am asking again.
Are you regretful?
Your signatures set on fire torpedo of a match.
And school uniforms are burned.
You created big terrorists hiding in uniforms.
You darkened the bright future I have been waiting for 25 years.
You have exaggerated a little.
Chorus x2
Treason is knee-deep.
Secular situation is tied to bitter fate.
Work is done.
Our tactics are breathless.
Didactic books are wood in a stove.
And the stones and soil of the country is mixed with gravel.
My professors are in a protest movement.
My scholars are excommunicated.
Didactic books are wood in a stove.
(Why aren’t you at the school?
If I said you are gonna go to school, you are gonna.
Am I kidding?
You need to study.)
(You have to go to school.)