I am the woman sending poems to God
With dreams in my hands, I am running like a gazelle
A spring hour, transcending love, strikes within me
Birdsong lingers on my fingers
I wash the face of the world
With a love the color of dried rose petals
The scent of freshly brewed hot tea rests in my heart
Words of love spill into the cool of autumn
What was the name of that season withdrawn to a remote corner?
Was it a love bearing dewdrops upon it?
Time stood still in the triumph of autumn
Green-earth eyes were left to the evenings
A moon wandered at their feet
Perhaps a downpour of hope was about to strike
From so far away
Your hands would plant flowers on our earthen roofs
A wind, as young as the roots themselves,
Would blow through my mind
An ache, as light as hair,
A handful of winter would race through time
I am now tendering my resignation to death
Leaving behind only the fear of parting
If only my mind could mingle
In a time ages hence
What if those eyes are not mine?
What if those hands are not mine?
How would all these beautiful words endure
Amidst old melodies?
Verses are drifting from solitude into poetry
English Translation by Mesut Şenol
