right after going to bed
a deluge of memories surges,
the dreams are not dreams at all – the documentary of the years:
the same old village, the same street, the same house and the some chamber…
at the window left ajar – your forgotten looks,
the sweat of your hands – on the book-smelling table,
there sits iced up gloominess on the face of quiescence.
a cradle swings in the vacuum, moanful
is that your mom, having her grandchild memorize songs?
is this a game like this, or is it an inappropriate joke,
where ages ago your mom had turned into an angel?
emin and esin are still indulging in riding a bike,
nesrin talks with cats for sure.
fellow canary is always there – at the tip of the grapevine,
the old laundry string is at odds with the wardrobe.
the old crony of many years is everywhere in the garden
barren traces yearn for your feet
there appears to be a complaint in the offended sprouts of the roses –
your eyes seem just filled as they are looked at…
after getting up in the morning
you can see in astonishment
drop by drop dreams ooze out of the cushion
Translated by Mesut Senol