• Türk, sanki rakibiyle eğlenmek veya seyircilere biraz güreş göstermek istiyor gibiydi."
    - The World
  • Meşhur bir Yeni Türkü şarkısı olan bu şiiri tanıdınız mı?

    somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
    any experience,your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me,i and
    my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
    compels me with the colour of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
    and opens;only something in me understands
    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
    nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
    E. E. Cummings
    Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J.
  • But Park's parents loved each other. They kissed each other on the mouth, no matter who was watching. What are the chances you'd ever meet someone like that? he wondered. Someone you could love forever, someone who would forever love you back? And what did you do when that person was born half a world away? The math seemed impossible.
  • It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost.
  • I soon learned to know this flower better. On the little prince’s planet the flowers had always been very simple. They had only one ring of petals; they took up no room at all; they were a trouble to nobody. One morning they would appear in the grass, and by night they would have faded peacefully away. But one day, from a seed blown from no one knew where, a new flower had come up; and the little prince had watched very closely over this small sprout which was not like any other small sprouts on his planet. It might, you see, have been a new kind of baobab.

    The shrub soon stopped growing, and began to get ready to produce a flower. The little prince, who was present at the first appearance of a huge bud, felt at once that some sort of miraculous apparition must emerge from it. But the flower was not satisfied to complete the preparations for her beauty in the shelter of her green chamber. She chose her colors with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She did not wish to go out into the world all rumpled, like the field poppies. It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature! And her mysterious adornment lasted for days and days.

    Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself.

    And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said:

    “Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged . . .”

    But the little prince could not restrain his admiration:

    “Oh! How beautiful you are!”

    “Am I not?” the flower responded, sweetly. “And I was born at the same moment as the sun . . .”

    The little prince could guess easily enough that she was not any too modest–but how moving–and exciting–she was!

    “I think it is time for breakfast,” she added an instant later. “If you would have the kindness to think of my needs–”

    And the little prince, completely abashed, went to look for a sprinkling-can of fresh water. So, he tended the flower.

    So, too, she began very quickly to torment him with her vanity–which was, if the truth be known, a little difficult to deal with. One day, for instance, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince:

    “Let the tigers come with their claws!”

    “There are no tigers on my planet,” the little prince objected. “And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds.”

    “I am not a weed,” the flower replied, sweetly.

    “Please excuse me . . .”

    “I am not at all afraid of tigers,” she went on, “but I have a horror of drafts. I suppose you wouldn’t have a screen for me?”

    “A horror of drafts–that is bad luck, for a plant,” remarked the little prince, and added to himself, “This flower is a very complex creature . . .”

    “At night I want you to put me under a glass globe. It is very cold where you live. In the place I came from–”

    But she interrupted herself at that point. She had come in the form of a seed. She could not have known anything of any other worlds. Embarassed over having let herself be caught on the verge of such a naïve untruth, she coughed two or three times, in order to put the little prince in the wrong.

    “The screen?”

    “I was just going to look for it when you spoke to me . . .”

    Then she forced her cough a little more so that he should suffer from remorse just the same.

    So the little prince, in spite of all the good will that was inseparable from his love, had soon come to doubt her. He had taken seriously words which were without importance, and it made him very unhappy.

    “I ought not to have listened to her,” he confided to me one day. “One never ought to listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. But I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity.”

    And he continued his confidences:

    “The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little strategems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her . . .”
  • But it happened that after walking for a long time through sand, and rocks, and snow, the little prince at last came upon a road. And all roads lead to the abodes of men.

    “Good morning,” he said.

    He was standing before a garden, all a-bloom with roses.

    “Good morning,” said the roses.

    The little prince gazed at them. They all looked like his flower.

    “Who are you?” he demanded, thunderstruck.

    “We are roses,” the roses said.

    And he was overcome with sadness. His flower had told him that she was the only one of her kind in all the universe. And here were five thousand of them, all alike, in one single garden!

    “She would be very much annoyed,” he said to himself, “if she should see that . . . She would cough most dreadfully, and she would pretend that she was dying, to avoid being laughed at. And I should be obliged to pretend that I was nursing her back to life–for if I did not do that, to humble myself also, she would really allow herself to die. . .”

    Then he went on with his reflections: “I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose. A common rose, and three volcanoes that come up to my knees–and one of them perhaps extinct forever . . . That doesn’t make me a very great prince . . .”

    And he lay down in the grass and cried.
  • It was then that the fox appeared.

    “Good morning,” said the fox.

    “Good morning,” the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.

    “I am right here,” the voice said, “under the apple tree.”

    “Who are you?” asked the little prince, and added, “You are very pretty to look at.”

    “I am a fox,” the fox said.

    “Come and play with me,” proposed the little prince. “I am so unhappy.”

    “I cannot play with you,” the fox said. “I am not tamed.”

    “Ah! Please excuse me,” said the little prince.

    But, after some thought, he added:

    “What does that mean–‘tame’?”

    “You do not live here,” said the fox. “What is it that you are looking for?”

    “I am looking for men,” said the little prince. “What does that mean–‘tame’?”

    “Men,” said the fox. “They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?”

    “No,” said the little prince. “I am looking for friends. What does that mean–‘tame’?”

    “It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. It means to establish ties.”

    “‘To establish ties’?”

    “Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . .”

    “I am beginning to understand,” said the little prince. “There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . .”

    “It is possible,” said the fox. “On the Earth one sees all sorts of things.”

    “Oh, but this is not on the Earth!” said the little prince.

    The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious.

    “On another planet?”

    “Yes.”

    “Are there hunters on that planet?”

    “No.”

    “Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?”

    “No.”

    “Nothing is perfect,” sighed the fox.

    But he came back to his idea.

    “My life is very monotonous,” the fox said. “I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . .”

    The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.

    “Please–tame me!” he said.

    “I want to, very much,” the little prince replied. “But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand.”

    “One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. “Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . .”

    “What must I do, to tame you?” asked the little prince.

    “You must be very patient,” replied the fox. “First you will sit down at a little distance from me–like that–in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . .”

    The next day the little prince came back.

    “It would have been better to come back at the same hour,” said the fox. “If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o’clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you . . . One must observe the proper rites . . .”

    “What is a rite?” asked the little prince.

    “Those also are actions too often neglected,” said the fox. “They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all.”

    So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near–

    “Ah,” said the fox, “I shall cry.”

    “It is your own fault,” said the little prince. “I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . .”

    “Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

    “But now you are going to cry!” said the little prince.

    “Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

    “Then it has done you no good at all!”

    “It has done me good,” said the fox, “because of the color of the wheat fields.” And then he added:

    “Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret.”

    The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

    “You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”

    And the roses were very much embarassed.

    “You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

    And he went back to meet the fox.

    “Goodbye,” he said.

    “Goodbye,” said the fox. “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

    “What is essential is invisible to the eye,” the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

    “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”

    “It is the time I have wasted for my rose–” said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

    “Men have forgotten this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . .”

    “I am responsible for my rose,” the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.