your oriental mustard
reaching out to me between my eyelashes
I take it as if it is something, for me a couple of geranium branches
and again it is something I take in my own way
the poet says
“amazingly, it was such a great pleasure given by your fingertips”
I cover with my hair the neck
of the labyrinth style thinking of kheiron
with his bureaucratic and secular breathing
whereas I have green wrists
feverish eyelashes
and the hairclip of my childhood
your name is written on the cards with a smell of cinnamon from Istanbul
on the table there lies a book by ortaçgil and the lemon peel in the teapot
the age of red dotted twenties
and the poem by turgut also belongs to us
the bergamot tea as well
yaşar kemal-birds are also gone
what’s more
a night with a thick neck
the lips pressed with tobacco
between us there is something naive
it is p o e t r y
English Tranlation By Mesut Şenol