They told me to be the reverse side of fabric
let your color be pale and the patterns vague
the reverse side of fabric is also the reverse of life
be a dead person, but they should not see your red
they said so but I did not pay attention, I was a rigid material
I took the scissors, I turned my reverse into the right side, tacked it with the blue
does love fit into cloths, I did blind stitch work
while singer machine was sewing holiday clothes inside me
I absently pricked my finger
I had modelled my soul beforehand
I thought maybe it would not fit into the daylight I live in
I slashed in order to get the body to breathe
I tailored deep low-cut, I fell into sin
the daisy was drinking water at that moment from the thread of fabric
coming off from different combs of the looms
some are of plain American, some are of Persian
some are of printed cloth, some Kashmir or fustian
I recognized you from your smell, texture and posture
I measured my body, I adjusted myself according to your size
I figured it out later that I cut out it wrongly
I was a novice tailor on those days
what is staying in the wardrobe is the dress I don’t wear
I made an underskirt out of memories
let them not see me exposed
with the light coming from the sooty firewood, lamp with wick
wasn’t it us to exchange two souls with a baby
whatever we would put on, they would befit, red or ginger
the dresses used to be silky skin touch
I am a tailor inside a covered bazaar
the weaving changed, the design too changed
my texture is known; I am made out of words
I measure sounds and I cut syllables
the needles and threads are running like clockwork
English Translation by Mesut Şenol