A poem

ATATURK

In the beginning I spoke the name of Ataturk
And did up my buttons.

How shall I say he is dead?
My Ataturk is before me,
He lies asleep in the snow,
His fur cap on his head.

How shall I say he is dead?
My Ataturk walks to Kocatepe,
Lost in though, musing,
His hand on his chin.

How shall I say he is dead?
My Ataturk is teaching
At the blackboard,
White chalk in his hand.

How shall I say he is dead?
He has set out,
He is walking among the crowds,
His new hat on his head.

How shall I say he is dead? How?
A ray of light has struck his face,
My Ataturk is looking on.
Let us make ourselves presentable.

İlhan DEMİRASLAN