everything ought just to be a bit jumbled
on our bosom the day ought to bleed instead of the rose
stars ought not to fall onto the sea sparkle, in silver pants
fillies ought to enter water in the moon time, wild
boys gyrating around the sea
all dads status quo, dads are conservative
all of them ought to be refused
to walk a long winding roads by cutting highways
high voltage lines are as free as trees,
orchestras without conductors, everybody ought to do what they are up to,
the fire in front of a camp tent ought to reach the skies
three seasons, on the girls with smoke wings
after jumping, it ought to stay at home
abstract sculptures ought to decorate the city, left breast
of the cut woman statues touching the skies
hornbeam, beeches; at the pier square
sooty barn lanterns, cherry laurel color of the night
it ought to have seeing eyes
it ought to pour in summers like blue winged birds
snow, peach pink rain symbols
gloominess ought to enter our dreams in quince color
interim colors ought to be written in literature like
warm starters, eucalyptuses ought to be cut, oleaster ought to be planted
the night ought to smell lilac and bud1
all moms ought to die in the thirteenth month2
streets with staircases, with elder women shoulder
to shoulder pelicans, love pigeon ought to beat on the windows
three times, when campanes ring, chrysanthemum
as tall as water, the sword wound at heart from shoulder to shoulder
tobacco yellow hair spreading over
the hidden and huge hand of the sky ought not crop the stars
and ought not the spill the seeds of malice for our earthman
brothers, young dead, cadavers
humans ought to steer their carriages towards gods
wild horses ought to get out of the moon in the writings, they ought
to kick at each other in the calm corners of the mountains, in their chilled springs
northwest wind ought to spread childhood under their feet.
paper boats ought to pass by the city offshore
three seasons, three times,
everything ought just to be a bit jumbled
everything ought as well to be a bit fictitious
Translated by Mesut Senol
1. hasan hüseyin, it is hard to die in june. “the night smells lilac and bud.”
2. hasan hüseyin, it is hard to die in june’78 inspired by its foreword
“all humans ought to die in the thirteenth month.”