Give the refugee a chance, they will be good for you, our possibility of a future; give them an opportunity, they are our future helplessness. The light of the Lord will flow from the refugee’s wound. Shame humanity a little, take the stone thrown by the madman out of the way; while waiting in the darkness for the inevitable dawn, can’t this soil carry the reward of the oppressed? Did it not carry history, civilization, and time? What does a candle lose by giving someone else a chance? No one grew from the soil, everyone came from somewhere else; yet now humanity excludes the refugee, and now the human being himself has become a stranger. The Lord, the owner of the universe, had said, “Come.” The bombs of democracy came too heavily; raise your words, you are above the bombs, do not make yourself small—you are universal.
No one remained, no one embraced humanity; it is calling out to you, listen to your own suffering. If you cannot find it within yourself, you will not find it anywhere else; we have already disappeared, if the measure is the name of human. No language other than the language of love can explain the essence; build a bridge between yourself and everything, let its name be love—or perhaps love is already here. Mevlana lived here too; he too was a refugee, he too was a stranger. You gave him a home, and he only exalted you; give a hand once again, save humanity once again. Then it will be ours; that beautiful, that good, that homeless future.
If you love even a single human being, you will hold on; even if the world throws you away from both sides, at least you will reach out. What is there left to reach for, where can refugee hands hold on? One side of the cliff is fire, the other is embers, and you have turned to ash as well. Life is now bitter hope, strange freedom, a rush toward death; beware of a land without a cliff. There is no Murat, the love and possibility of living have been destroyed; at the edge of the cliff, you will volunteer for nothingness. For the first time, it is your right to choose the greater possibility; fortunately, the cliff is close to the heart, always the one and only door that can belong to you. The contradiction between being and dying is humanity’s; if you give up, your light ends. Your hopes are the guide, your dreams are a lifetime; the cliff is the homeland, the cliff is the eternal country.
If you love, you will hold on; if loving the cliff is your desire, reaching toward the cliff is your last resort. What does it mean to abandon the cliff? It is your last chance. You are not merely a human being, you are humankind; and what you love is a homeland, your final refuge. Where will you hold on, where will your refugee name find something to hold? If the apocalypse of humanity is going to begin somewhere, it will begin here. At the very least, you must die while reaching out; perhaps the hands that tried to reach will become a lesson, perhaps the universe will be ashamed of humanity. It has already gone beyond you and me, but the cliff is the real matter; for that reason, even dying is beautiful—for the cliff, on the cliff, to depart in devotion, to leave through love—that is it.
