Listen me my son, once at a mansion,
At evening, in the light of oil lamp
With that cup which remained from her Pasha grandfather
My grandmother would offer coffee to Mr. Abdi
After the years, fourty-three (or) fourty-four, the middle of war
Ration card of bread, and poverty years
With that cup which remained from her husband's mother
For this time, my mother would offer coffee to Mr. Hakkı
That old mansion is burned, became ash
These years with ration card of bread are already over
Mr. Abdi and Hakkı are became deceased
Only that cup remained from centenary loves
One day, the cup will be yours with its accumulated memories
Even if it fall and break, repair it my son,
Your coffee age will come, save this cup well.