What I have written about is all lies
it is my yearning
grown on the unreachable branch
it is my thirst
drawn up from the well of my dreams
it is an image
traced on a ray of sunlight
what I have written about us is all true
it is your grace
brimming fruit basket spilled on the grass
it is your absence
when I become the last light at the farthest street corner
it is my jealousy
when I run by night through the trains blinfolded
it is my happiness
sunlit river flooding the dykes
what I have written about us is all lies
what I have written about us is all true.

Poesie d'amore
--Hikmet (Milan: Mondadori, 1984), p. 101