Simit Seller Child Poem by Nilufer Dursun

SIMIT SELLER CHILD
A simit seller child,
Only at the age of seven
His little ears have been gotten red
Because of the cold
In his arm a huge simit basket,
Running under the rain,
His tears have been mixed to the rain.
Hair has been gotten wet,
Hands have been cold,
He has lost his voice besides
Between purple lips
He's shouting with a thin trimbling voice
'Fresh Simit'
On his foot a rubber shoe
Has been drilled.
His feet are cold.
Bewildred look like a butterfly,
He's flying
To the warm dreams
He's touching a taking hoper,
To his sleepless eyes,
He's taking to love
To his heart
A little small change in his pocket,
Nicely hot simits in his basket
Rushing uphill.
With a weak voice,
Is still shouting
'My simits are fresh'


Poem: Onur Sancak
Translated by: Nilufer DURSUN