We are the children of a sad homeland; the wind hit us, we were scattered... Our story is the case of a leaf scattered in a storm to make the land where it fell a homeland.
We are the children of a people who have tamed even joy with sadness. Ours is a fate of longing that broke from the storm of the Caucasus and sealed in the bosom of Anatolia.
Our shadiness appears in the toy, but its essence is always sealed with sorrow. At the beginning of our song, it is thought to be festive, but in the very first verse, a “wâh” falls on the heart.
Because the wedding zurna of this country needs the same breath as the salute of the dead.
We are from the land of June.
Even the wind of this country blows with memories; sometimes it blows us to the bosom of Kafdağ, sometimes to the vast silence of Anatolia... We knew neither a destination nor a decision; the road became our homeland, longing became our homeland.
Even in our cradles there is no tranquility. The layla from the mother's tongue delivers the child not to sleep but to time. Which people's lullaby is sung in the mourning mode? Which people commemorate their losses like a rosary bead while lulling their children to sleep...
This is how it is with us, because forgetting is a shame and remembering is worship.
Our mountains are smoky; that smoke is not fog, it is the pain of centuries.
Its skirts are grassy, but every blade of grass hides a story, every stone an unfinished goodbye.
Our mothers exhaust the patience of a lifetime of waiting, not just the path of the departed.
Her eyes on a shadow on the horizon, her ears on the creaking of the door... When Ana waits, time stops, the earth falls silent, the mountain bends.
We do not know all of joy, nor are we completely silent in mourning. There is a sigh even in the Toy, a solemnity even in the lament.
Because we are the heirs of a people who have dressed grief in decency and entrusted pain to words.
We have always known the homeland as a mother, the mother as a layla, and the layla as an everlasting voice.
Peace be upon the harsh wind of the Caucasus and the burning soil of Anatolia.
Peace be with you;
“If we had that vineyard again, we would have come to you again,
Soothe my soul with your timid gaze”
to those who leave the bond of love in “that bond” with their terennums...
Peace be upon the children of hazan, whose even their lays are elegies, whose paths are woven with longing, who have never learned to forget...
Bless our mothers who wove this love into our hearts like a noose.
Peace be upon all the flowers of blood that bloom with blood on the snow... And upon the never-ending lull of Khojaly, orphaned in the bosom of that silent night.