You are a village, You cling to a mountainside in Anatolia.

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You are the field
I am a tractor
you are paper
I—a typewriter;
my wife, mother of my son
you are the folk-song
I—a shrill flute.
I am a night with moist breath from the south
while you are a woman strolling along the wharf
your gaze upon the lights of the opposite shore.
I am water
you—the one thirsting.
I am the one passing along the road
while you open a window
to lend me a helping hand.
You are China
I—the army of Mao-Tse-Tsung.
You are the fourteen-year-old girl
I save
from the arms of an American sailor.
You are a village.
You cling to a mountainside in Anatolia.
You are my city
at its loveliest and most poignant.
You are the cry for help—my country—
And the one rushing towards you in stride—myself.

Nazim Hikmet (by Jean Carpenter Efe)