Küçük Prens “Koyun” / The Little Prince “The Sheep”

7.Bölüm

(Look into comment for the English text.)

* * *

Beşinci günü, yine koyun sayesinde, Küçük Prens’in hayatındaki sırrı öğrendim. Birdenbire, hiç sırası değilken uzun zamandan beri sessizce düşündüğü bir meseleyi açar gibi:,

– Koyun ağaç fidanı yerse, çiçek de yer, değil mi? diye sordu.

– Koyun ne bulursa onu yer, dedim.

– Dikeni olan çiçekleri de yer mi?

– Evet, dikeni olanı da yer.

– Öyleyse, dikenler ne işe yarar?

Hiç bilmiyorudum. O anda da otorumun sıkışmış bir vidasını sökmeye uğraşıyordum. Çok dertliydim; motordaki bozukluk çok önemli görünüyordu. İçme suyumuz da günden güne azaldığından, geleceği karanlık görmeyğe başlamıştım.

– Dikenler ne işe yarar?

Küçük Prens bir soru sordu mu, vazgeçmezdi. Vidaya çok sinirlenmiştim. Rastgele bir cevap verdim:

– Dikenler hiçbir işe yaramaz. Çiçeklerin kötü huyundan doğar.

– Aa…

Kısa bir sessizlikten sonra, kin dolu bir bakışla:

– İnanmam! dedi. Çiçekler zayıftır, saftır. Tehlikelere karşı koymak için, ellerinden geleni yaparlar. Hem onlar dikenleriyle kendiierini çok güçlü sanırlar…
Hiç cevap vermedim. O anda: “Şu vidayı sökemezem çekiçle uçururum” diye düşünüyordum

– Hem sen inanmıyor musun ki çiçekler…

– Yok, yok, bir şeye inandığım yok. Aklıma geleni söyledim. Hem ben ciddi şeylerle uğraşıyorum.

Küçük Prens dona kaldı:

– Ciddi şeyler!

Elimde çekiç, parmaklarım makine yağıyla kapkara olmuş, hiç beğenmediği o uçakla uğraşıyordum. Bir an baktı, sonra:

– Sen de büyükler gibi konuşuyorsun, dedi.

Biraz utanmıştım. O ise acımadan sözünü tamamladı:

– Her şeyi birbirine karıştırıyorsun… Kafan darmadağın…

Çok kızmıştı, başını sallıyor, altın sarısı saçları rüzgarda uçuşuyordu.

– Ben bir gezegen bilirim, içinde al yanaklı bir bay otururç Ömründe bir çiçek koklamamış, bir yıldıza bakmamıştır. Hiç, hiç kimseyi sevmemiştir. Yalnız toplamalar yapar. O da senin gibi sabahtan akşama kadar: ” Ben ciddi bir adamım, ciddi bir adamım” der durur. Çok da övünür. Ama adam değil ki o, mantardır.

– Nedir?

– Mantar!

Küçük Prens öfkesinden sapsarı olmuştu.

– Milyonlaraca yıldan beri çiçekler diken salar, milyonlarca yıldan beri de koyunlar çiçekleri yer. Hiçbir zaman, hiç bir işe yaramayan bu dikenleri neden bıraktıklarını anlamaya çalışmak ciddi değil de nedir? Koyunlarla çiçeklerin savaşı önemli değil de o al yanaklı şişko bayın toplamaları mı daha ciddi, daha önemli? Ve ben bu dünyada bir çiçek tanıyorsam, biricik bir çiçek, benim gezegenimden başka bir yerde bulunmayan bir çiçek ve günün birinde bir koyun gelip de, ne yaptığını bilmeden, o çiçeği kkoparıp yerse, önemli değil mi?

Yüzü kızararak ekledi:

– İnsan binlerce, milyonlarca yıldızın birinde yaşayan eşsiz bi tek çiçeği seviyorsa, yıldızlara bakmakla bile mutlu olur. “Çiçeğim oralarda bi yerdedir” der. Ama koyun çiçeği yerse, sanki yıldızların hepsi birden sönüverir. Bu da mı önemli değil?

Daha ileri gidemedi, birdenbire hıçkırıklarla ağlamaya başladı. Karanlık çökmüştü. Aletlerimi fırlatıp attım. Bana çekiç, vida, susuzluk, ölüm vız geliyordu artık! Yıldızın, gezegenin birinde, benim gezegenim olan bu dünyada bir Küçük Prens vardı, onu avutmak gerekti.

Onu kollarımın arasına aldım, salladım. “Üzülme, sevdiğin çiçeği koruruz, koyuna, onu yemesini engelleyecek bir burunsallık çizerim… Çiçeğinin etrafına bir parmaklık çizerim… Sana…”

Ne diyeceğimi şaşırmıştım, çok beceriksiz buluyordum kendimi. Küçük Prens’e nasıl yaklaşayım, onu nasıl avutayım bilmiyordum…

Şu gözyaşı dünyası öyle esrarlı bir dünya ki!

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xepdh3_kucuk-prens-the-little-prince-1974_shortfilms

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, “Küçük Prens” (11.basım: 08/2007)

Kaynak: http://home.ku.edu.tr/~kumyup/kp.htm

This entry was posted in Popüler Kitap Alıntıları / Popular Books Excerpts. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Küçük Prens “Koyun” / The Little Prince “The Sheep”

  1. nalan&nico says:

    Chapter 7

    On the fifth day–again, as always, it was thanks to the sheep–the secret of the little prince’s life was revealed to me. Abruptly, without anything to lead up to it, and as if the question had been born of long and silent meditation on his problem, he demanded:

    “A sheep–if it eats little bushes, does it eat flowers, too?”

    “A sheep,” I answered, “eats anything it finds in its reach.”

    “Even flowers that have thorns?”

    “Yes, even flowers that have thorns.”

    “Then the thorns–what use are they?”

    I did not know. At that moment I was very busy trying to unscrew a bolt that had got stuck in my engine. I was very much worried, for it was becoming clear to me that the breakdown of my plane was extremely serious. And I had so little drinking-water left that I had to fear for the worst.

    “The thorns–what use are they?”

    The little prince never let go of a question, once he had asked it. As for me, I was upset over that bolt. And I answered with the first thing that came into my head:

    “The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite!”

    “Oh!”

    There was a moment of complete silence. Then the little prince flashed back at me, with a kind of resentfulness:

    “I don’t believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons . . .”

    I did not answer. At that instant I was saying to myself: “If this bolt still won’t turn, I am going to knock it out with the hammer.” Again the little prince disturbed my thoughts:

    “And you actually believe that the flowers–”

    “Oh, no!” I cried. “No, no, no! I don’t believe anything. I answered you with the first thing that came into my head. Don’t you see–I am very busy with matters of consequence!”

    He stared at me, thunderstruck.

    “Matters of consequence!”

    He looked at me there, with my hammer in my hand, my fingers black with engine-grease, bending down over an object which seemed to him extremely ugly . . .

    “You talk just like the grown-ups!”

    That made me a little ashamed. But he went on, relentlessly:

    “You mix everything up together . . . You confuse everything . . .”

    He was really very angry. He tossed his golden curls in the breeze.

    “I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: ‘I am busy with matters of consequence!’ And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man–he is a mushroom!”

    “A what?”

    “A mushroom!”

    The little prince was now white with rage.

    “The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman’s sums? And if I know–I, myself–one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing–Oh! You think that is not important!”

    His face turned from white to red as he continued:

    “If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, ‘Somewhere, my flower is there . . .’ But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened . . . And you think that is not important!”

    He could not say anything more. His words were choked by sobbing.

    The night had fallen. I had let my tools drop from my hands. Of what moment now was my hammer, my bolt, or thirst, or death? On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince to be comforted. I took him in my arms, and rocked him. I said to him:

    “The flower that you love is not in danger. I will draw you a muzzle for your sheep. I will draw you a railing to put around your flower. I will–”

    I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more.

    It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

    Shortfilm:

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