The Art of Marxism: poetry

The Last Bus

by Nāzım Hikmet Ran


Midnight the last bus,

The tickets are bought.

There is no bad news waiting for me at home,

Nor is there a feast.

Seperation awaits me.

I walk towards separation fearless

And without sorrow.

I am very close to the great darkness.

I can watch the world now,

Calm and comfortable.

A friend's deception does not surprise me now,

The knife he stabs me with as he shakes my hand.

Useless, the enemy no longer scares me.

I have gone through the forest of fetishes

Chopping,

How easily they fell.

I looked again at my beliefs

Many thanks most of them were pure.

I had never felt so purified before,

Nor so free.

I am very close to the great darkness.

I can watch the world now,

Calm and comfortable.

I don't lift my head from my work and look,

From the past before me appear,

A word,

   A smell,

       A hand waiving,

The word is friendly,

   The smell is beautiful,

        It is my beloved waiving.

The invitation of memories no longer saddens me,

I have no complaints about memories,

There is nothing I have complaints about anyway,

Not even about my heart

That aches without end, like a huge tooth.