Blend me, overflowing from dungeons
Ask for me at the likes of Mamak and Metris
I sealed Diyarbekir with blood
Enfold me as corpses, as shrouds
This song is entrusted by the purple mountains
It is a handful of water for the escapees,
A slice of a song for the inmate,
A scarf with lace for the dowry chest,
Milk for the breast,
And the blessing of the spring to the earth.
It doesn't fit into the mourning of the four walls, the barbed wires.
It is a brave bullet in the barrel of a rifle.
Before it, famine and pestilence, the winter
Behind it, the ashes from fires, the cranberries and the violets
A chord of it plays the Assyrians, another one the Chaldeans
And each season, it turns
Petroleum blue and
Blood red into a greenish hue.
It tastes like the saltiness of dried lips.
It plays the Euphrates and the Tigris.
Hey
It is the reflection of life
within the beak of a hawk.
My love with black hair,
with skin like a rose,
this song is entrusted by the purple mountains.
When the sun light hits the snowburnt face
The celestial heart stirs.
Its cap is sorrowful, its shirt is bloody
Its love is an abyss.
Its eyes are an ember, its eyes are a dagger,
its eyes are courage.
Its labour is a chrysanthemum,
its hands are brave and skillful.
Beyond the purple mountains, there are
three huge sagas, three huge worlds,
three equations,
three codes, three atomic nuclei
And a lighter, a sparke and a dynamite.
When the sun light hits the snowburnt face,
the song of the purple mountains arrives.
They were fire in the breast of the sun,
a fresh flower on earth.
They were shells of honor in the barrel,
a heart in revolt,
the pure white truth in the black dream.
My delicate, it is the love of
thousands of years,
the foam of grudge
on the shores of patience.
It is the craving
in the red apple,
in the wheatears,
in the rosy lips.
Don't hang about, my delicate sister
Sing your song
Wtihout crying
Without lamenting
In the joy of henna nights
In Lurke, in Goven
In Temirağa.