old dervishes in old tales
the colors the loves the torn notebooks
notebooks are long trees of loneliness
under your skirt most of the time . . .
in this pain I was like a blazing palace
turning ashen, I am as tired as my life
secret smiles of a child
half-open balcony doors
the loves whose doors
are closed as fast as time
a thousand years of exhaustion is mine.
Translator: Tozan Alkan