The white river, a leftover from the insomnia of a water.
Unleashing itself in a limpid transparency.
O my youth, my desolation.
Coming back to where it started: boomerang.
Thirty birds taking the road to the Cuff Mountain. Myself becoming thirty birds every night.
A leftover from the desperation of a face
Annihilation where nobody can hear others.
Now where is that colorless carnation
To be flown where?
A leftover from the fatigued soul’s sadness
That ash can reproduce itself again.
Where have I started, me who was kicked out from thirty villages
With the reflection swelling on the water?
I couldn’t go nowhere fast.
I whistled in one cycle, I appeared.
Something slipping through my fingers…
The sadness though deadlocked first and last
Me too from beginning to end…
(From “Now, from Which River”)
English Translation by Mesut Şenol