Letter

In the very same room

behind the doors

are my longing and your Photo

a pot of flower is my freedom

and sweaty loneliness…

My night confessions have a desert face….

the letter I wrote

is on its way to you…

 

…can’t come back

You

cannot come back to me…

You are the one

who left on a Sunday night in July…

Even if I called hesitant

you would turn your eyes away

to the rose gardens of every color

but crimson…

Yet, you

do not love

anything but red roses….

 

(Translated by Selin Ozgen)