A Shepherd’s Homeland
There was a peace swept away by a warm yellow wind at that time of the day,
at that moment,
I saw the shepherd herding his sheep.
One side of me was the sea, blue and calm as can be,
One side of me was the forest, a thousand and one shades of green, as much as possible.
A weathered road in front of me, it is worn.
I am going on a Saturday at noon.
At this time, the Mediterranean fills me through the window of the car.
I breathe. I inhale. Oh! my motherland’s soul.
I perceive that the sky is evolving around me.
I stop.
They seize the village road, occupied by a few sheep, with sheep bells on their necks, sheep bells…
They speak in a jingling, jingling voice.
They follow each other, the shepherd slowly through the plain on the right, through the trees.
He moves like glue after golden ears of wheat up to his waist. No, he is not walking. As he was swimming into that yellowness.
At this time of the year, the soil of Cyprus turns yellow.
A gray hat on his head, a coloured shirt, his hair and beard tangled, the dust of the earth on his feet.
Dust. The miraculous word.
He’s like an ancient Greek god, exiled in lostness, no longer a believer, imprisoned to live in his inner world.
It is unknown what is left of his life, which he covered with his dust-smeared feet; maybe he still continues with his dream of blue under this blue sky where he was born, perhaps there is no more.
When three or five more sheep pass in front of me, I turn to greet; he bows his head slightly, he does not smile, this is a look that says, where did this man come from, in this red sun!
He passed the road just only one leg, he lost the other one, leaning on the cane,
Then he got lost in the ears of wheat.
I don’t know if nature is aware of this,
but on a Saturday in May,
when the sun had just fallen from the hill to the west,
and the shadows were just starting to appear,
I was lost there among those colours with that shepherd.
At this time of the year, the soil of Cyprus falls into the fire.
Cracked pine cones, fallen trees, scorched bugs,
many bird nests, many human memories, many living things’ homeland, morning and night, will have their share of the birth of a spark the next day,
on a Sunday in May.
The place where I saw the shepherd,
the place where I lost my consciousness, that is, the foothills of Ağırdağ*,
will be on fire.
Sometimes we do not think that we will not see what we saw for the last time.
Here is the end, the dust has turned to dust, a black cover remains from a shepherd’s land,
life is lost,
those who have just bowed their heads to the sun,
those who have just given invitations to their flowers,
are lost among the approaching waves of flame one by one.
This time of year, the people of Cyprus sigh for someone!
Because at the end of the day, everything will turn into one upon a time.
However, if there are people in it whose feet are still covered with dust and who shed sweat if necessary,
it is a homeland with a stick in their hand under the hot sun.
That disabled shepherd’s struggle for life is a homeland.
It burned with a spark; maybe it’s our turn now.
However, with a cigarette butt, however, with a broken bottle,
or with a bell, the shepherd puts on his sheep,
or with our eyes that don’t see.
Do not forget, the core of human it is soil.
The bell of the shepherd!
Fire!
*Ağırdağ: A little village in Northern Cyprus.
|Based on a true story|
