In truth, the color of winter is snow
An endless white
That dazzles the eyes
A pure white headscarf draped over the mountains
A misty veil howling through the mountain passes
A crystalline sword hanging from the eaves
An unblemished path
That crunches beneath our feet
A bright, crisp scent
Through which we run with the joy of a child
Why, then, is it called a “black winter”
Because in the dead of winter
Poverty bows a person’s back so low
That the very image of life becomes hunched and doubled over
It is a cold lash
That pierces the walls of unplastered homes
A catastrophe that descends upon the tables of the poor
It is black, pitch-black.
January 2020, Istanbul
English Translation by Mesut Şenol