When you look up
From your enormously heavy heart
The realities you see for fun
Could they become a rope around your neck?
They would not be violin strings, would they
In the rebellion as we started saying nothing’s impossible
There is the future of the unborn children
And the aching hearth of the previous love affairs
Helpless scream of the American Indian
Who was shut in the middle of his forehead and fell down
Deserters who feather their nests apiece
Let the horse thieves shoot the ones with different color
Unrelenting pallets of history are rotating
Their epaulettes, their pallets, their epaulettes
They are written with blood in the world
The sound of being sufficient is to say stand up
They are, I won’t tell though in case some people would be scared
They are, – let them startle, and be frightened – with the rope around their neck
An atlas made out of flame in their hands
The water in the boundless seas
History owes them an eraser
For they plucked a twig in the poppy field
The children decapitated with guillotine
Row after row with marching irregular steps
Carnations, the blood mixing carnations
Oozing into the cracks of history from our hearts
Tough those cracks were made to see the light
In the middle of history, I wrote in reverse order
The pale children used to be silent incessantly
Every place I kissed used to turn into a red carnation
The skin I touched used to turn into a martin flock
I took you to my bosom with an endless love
Like pouring tobacco into my wounds
Like adding ash and salt to my wounds
English Translation by Mesut Şenol