You see
a granulated shame
on the blonde children’s spike.
From out of the lowland
an odor of invisible lilac
obscures our tiny sun.
Flowing over the houses and terraces
it perches in my voice.
Flexible poison hemlock of my voice,
multi-colored poison hemlock of my voice.
And an ivory fragment stretches
towards the birds: the way the wind acts.
The mountain: skeletal in the sun.
Hatchling of the sea, seems to be massive
amongst the wooden sculptures.
I see blood and I see stone
amidst all sculptures.
Nightmare proves to be a lukewarm initiate
milky fig of sleepiness –
It does not bleed into the beehives.
Mummy died when she was so little
kiss me first, then give birth to me.
Translated by Mesut Senol