What is there
about
travelling
That makes me
weep each
time?
I am, after
all, all alone
in the world.
One morning
when the sky
is still red
I set out from
Uzunköprü:
The horses of
the open cart
go clop-clop;
The driver is
fourteen years
old.
Suddenly the
knee of a
young girl
touches my
knee:
She's wearing
a grim robe,
but she is
flighty.
I ought to be
cheerful,
right?
Nothing of the
sort!
Tell me,
what's this
about
travelling?
