Flowers of My Village

Come on, it’s dawn …

The day is rising… It’s time for the holidays.

Thirsty calves, wheat, alfalfa, barley …

And the flowers… The flowers of my village. He waits to be sniffed, those who know how to smell. They expect to be loved, those who know how to love. He waits for the conversation, from those who know the conversation. Loyalty awaits, from those who forget …

In these lands where our childhood and youth passed, there was no electricity, no water, no hospital, no school, but there was a lot of people… We were unaware of our flowers, we did not think to bend over, smell, touch and caress, neither we children nor adults.

Now, people are decreasing, decreasing… Young people are in love with the metropolitan, they dream of becoming a civil servant. Our henna girls love to live in cities. What remains are the households that are closed every year, the ruined mansions, the sad fountains, and the bowed flowers. Our people who are determined to live in this land are unhappy, unhappy without knowing why they are unhappy. They also cannot see these flowers… Yet now all vital civilized means are available, yet our people are unhappy.

People are astonished, why are we unhappy among these beauties, have we forgotten to be thankful? Or did we forget the assemblies of friends, the holidays or the folk songs?

Were these lands more cheerful in those years when even the flickering flame in the gas lamp was cold? Or have we forgotten to talk, to worry, to share?

While every beauty that should not change is on the way to erosion and disappearance, the increasing technology and the level of prosperity constantly raise our expectations. The ambition to consume, to consume more, the desire to reach more makes us all poor.

While bodies are getting richer, souls are getting poorer …

In those years when we did not even know electricity, our flowers, which we could not see and noticed in the difficulties of life, now do not appear among the mechanized world, robotized brains, concrete houses.

Our petrified souls, dried hearts, and desolate lands are waiting for a Mevlana , a Yunus again?

However, there are many good words that have not been said yet under the dome of the sky. Beautiful words that should not be consumed …

My dear brother, Necip Yavuz , we wanted the photographs of Mr. Necip Yavuz to be noticed with this book as Kenan Yavuz Culture House , with her efforts of nearly 20 years. We invite all our friends who have reached our book to experience this magnificent beauty.

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