Lilac-colored sunset,
evening willows by the lake,
a pearly smile
a limping man seen through the window
falls once again onto the asphalt.

A squirrel climbs into its tree hollow,
the flow of time never stops.
I fear an earthquake,
afraid to be crushed
beneath the weight of my concrete home.

A mother puts her child to sleep,
the child, sated by the sweet taste of milk,
closes their eyes.

On the lemons, on those very trees Lorca wrote about,
A great genius.
I can feel the vivid image he brought to life in his words,
Hear the sound of the guitar,
Understand his state before death,
Before the execution.
Granada’s sun shines because of you.

Feed the earth flesh,
So it may be fertile.
We eat carrion
It sounds revolting!

Do not close the coffin doors,
I have fears.
Don't bury my hands,
Let the animals eat them
For we eat them,
It sounds revolting.

Dead trees will come to life again.

In mariana trench
a singing blue whale,
my river of thoughts
flows over my mother's lap.
The sun has lost its warmth
against the backdrop of winter's cold,
when you cry,
and embrace someone,
it’s a great relief.
Tell me the story of Scheherazade,
I will fall asleep on your arm.
Forgive me my foot,
for the wound I caused you with an axe in my childhood,
wild pigs devour
the fruit of mulberry trees.

The caricatures of our soul,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Trees, of which we are the mothers,
Or perhaps wild nature’s offspring.
When we place our hands on the table,
Awaiting food,
We see our grown children through the window.
The tip of the pen leaves lines on the paper,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Deaf concrete houses
Disrupt the echo of stillness
Oh, the emptiness.
Bresson’s films,
Breaking into us,
Like the diary of a country priest,
Written on black pages
In white correction fluid.

Sandcastles,
Collapsing like our dreams.
At the end of the night,
We feel the chill of dawn.

Draw a silent fish,
With water gathered in its mouth.
Victims of our surroundings,
We follow the earth,
Cracked like it.

In the sand of mistakes,
A mother brews Turkish coffee.

The noise will shatter the windows,
the scorching cold will light a torch,
because often, falling asleep in frost,
we may warm up and die bloodless.