Nâzım Hikmet Ran

The days are gradually getting shorter,
the rains are about to start.
My door waited wide open for you.
Why were you so late?

Bread, salt, a green pepper on my table.
Waiting for you
I drank on my own
half the wine I kept for you in my jug.
Why were you so late?

But look, the honeyed fruit,
ripe on the branch, remains alive.
If you had been any later
it would have dropped unplucked to the ground.

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