son, your beard ****** my face
was saying my mother, a poppy field
an unhappy water flowing through my word plain
a rattle, a mute bloodstone
a wild blizzard blowing from my chest
the moon sits on the saddle of the two branches
she even chases up me in my dreams
grinding my shadow like my footsteps.


Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)