Mehmet Akif Ersoy, from 'To The Martyrs of Canakkale'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

["After the sea battle of March 18th 1915 the British tried a landing on Gallipoli Peninsula which caused heavy losses for all parties. National poet of Turkey Mehmet Akif Ersoy wrote a very long legend about the fallen Turkish Soldier. Here are some verses: We call the battles of Gallipoli "War of Canakkale"]

from To The Martyrs of Canakkale

This Dardanelles war - without equal in the world
Four or five mighty armies are pressed and are hurled
To reach the Sea of Marmara by hill and pass
So many fleets have surrounded a small mass...

The Old World and the New World, all have come this way,
Bubbling like sand, like a flood, or like Judgement Day;
The seven climes of the world stand opposite you
Australia, beside which observe Canada too!
Different are these hordes in face and skin and sound
Only their violence, forsooth, is equal all round.

Outstretched he lies there, shot right through his spotless brow,
For this Crescent O Lord, what suns are setting now
O soldier, for this earth's sake fallen to the dust,
If your heavenly forbears kissed your brow, "twere just"
Brave you are, your blood makes "God is one" victorious,
Only the lions of Badr could be as glorious.
Who can dig a sepulchre great enough for you?
History itself, say I, cannot contain you.
That book records the epochs upturned in this race...
Eternities are needed to give you your place.
You, who destroyed the onslaught of the last crusade,
From the dearest sultan of the East, Saladin,
And from Kýlýç Arslan who earned high accolade
You who took the iron hoop hemming Islam in
And shattered into pieces on your own strong breast
You with whose spirit move the legends of your name
The iron hoop that robbed Islam of all its rest;
Ages of history overflow with your fame...
No more these horizons for you no more this test...
Martyr son of martyr ask me not for a grave,
The prophet open armed awaits his warrior his warrior brave.
Shot down, on their spotlessly clean foreheads they lie,
For the sake of Crescent what suns are setting, O God!
Hey Soldier! Who has fallen on the ground for this land!
It would be worth their while
For our ancestors to descend from heaven
And kiss your unsullied forehead!
How great you are; our religion is saved by your blood;
Only the lions of the Battle of Bedr were as glorious.
Who could dig the grave that won't be too small for you?
`Come', if I say, `Let's bury you into History!'
You won't be contained in it.
That book isn't large enough
For the epochs you played havoc with.
Only eternity can contain you.
Saying, `this is your tomstone'
If I could place the Kaaba on your head,
And listening to the divine inspiration of my soul
Write down your epitaph,
Then, if I could take the voult of heaven
As if it was a woollen cloak
And cover your bleeding tomb
With all the planets.
If I could build with April clouds
A dome over your tomb,
And extend the seven starred Pleiades from there;
You, enwrapped with your blood 'neath the chandelier
While lying there,
If I could bring the moon to your graveside
And make it attend on you as your keeper
Until daybreak,
And then, if I could fill your chandelier to the brim
With dawn;
If I could wrap round your wound
In the evenings with tulles of sunset,
Even then I could not say
I have done enough
To cherish your blessed memory.

By Mehmet Akif Ersoy
Translated By: S. Tanvir Wasti