ever since I heard my name in poems, I have not belonged to this
world
it began that day we met on the mountain peaks
with the eyes that first arrived, departed, and beheld
with these birds fluttering within my veins
as the mountain, sighing, breathed its love into our vessels
and then, with the way snow crystals
through the capillaries of resonance and reverence
swallowed up all the noise
the scent of snow in my heart
whenever it touched another sorrow deep within me
the directions calling me multiplied so vastly
that we stripped ourselves bare, before ourselves and each other, again and again
what followed: walking idols
the silent roar of an awakening impulse
the complexity of fantasy
asking questions is forbidden!
for too many questions spoil poetry and love
too many questions spoil the snow and the mountain
sorrow that candle you lit with the snow in your hands
we came to possess a language of our own, then
sparse in words, yet fierce in passion
where all the poems upon your skin called out my name
calling like the sirens, demanding to be heard
where every scale of that summons lay revealed
sorrow! A snake, a Shahmaran, or a mermaid
floating the scales of her body in the scent of snow
I had sealed my ears with beeswax
so as not to be summoned by other poems
yet these metaphysical trees, seductive accusations
toward which she ran, as if forgetting the thorniness of her hands,
this courtroom and desire,
love’s vibrating resonances and allusions,
the pearl-studded caftan and the patched gown
they stage a parody of the past.
Before the candle in the pumpkin burns out,
I will not renounce my right to happiness;
what follows, political or not, is the political:
dark bureaucracy,
blood, saliva, bile, and passion.
The East sits in the presence:
Firdawsi and Saadi,
Rumi and Hafez.
For too many questions spoil poetry and love
too many questions spoil the snow and the mountain.
English Translation by Mesut Şenol