Spring has gone and left behind no sign or trace;
Leaves, in falling from their branches, fell from grace.
Robed in poverty the trees stand, while the plane
Bids with trembling hands the cold wind to its place.
Rich in golden mud the sterams caress their feet;
All the trees expect largess from this embrace.
Let tha sapling, stripped of its habiliments,
Keep on dancing as the winds strains set the pace.
Baki, those leaves strewn upon the lawn, I think,
Hold a brief against the winds unheeding chase.
(Translated by John. R. Walsh, 101 Poems by 101 Poets An Anthology of Turkish Poetry)