On the flame of a candle
I want to get the pyramids of my sadness.
On the flame of a tear
I want to get my youth's ash burnt.
On the flame of a bullet
I want to either start or finish
My blood's symphony.
Time dropped,
Dropped from my head to my foot,
So I died.
Its drop was so roaring
It woke me up from my sleep
So I laughed.

Death was at the door.
Death was the only friend who deeply remembered me
Without stopping to send me
Its black flowers by registered mail.
The winter got lost in rain and mud.
When I sent the summer
To search for it,
The summer did not return.
It was said that summer
Became busy with the spring's nakedness.

It was said that time
Had neither winter, summer,
Nor spring of nakedness.
Time is just towns in the shape of lighted graves
And a nice light, illuminating the travelers' corpses.
Time... it is me.
Time... it is you.
You who had no train,
And I who had neither station nor railways.

From your blood, I borrowed my death
And wrote the novel of my letter
And translated the defeats of my dot
Into seventy live and dead languages.
I was surrounded by winter
And its lies and drizzles.
So I tried to surround it by my letters,
But I burned and drowned.
You are a lie,
And I am the line
You put your lie on.
You are confession,
And I am an accused one
Who assuredly confessed to his thousand crimes.
Then slept as an innocent child.

You, who are you?
And where is your dot?
Is it up where the sun drops foolishly?
Or is it down
Where the sun is to be stolen by the immoral godless?
You, who are you?
You are a perfect murder
Lacking nothing but a bullet
And a murderer's quiet smile.
You are a perfect murder
Lacking nothing but me.

You are an invitation to lust
I am frightened to write
Because my alphabet is heavenly
And my moony pen is full of secrets.
You are a coup de grace
Forgotten by the hangman
Who slept on the swing
Leaving his victim to moan
Through the glass of pomegranate.

You are music running away
To the depth of rains
So as to sleep.
You are a body which lost its dot
And tried to kill me in the passage.
You are a myth walking on feet.
You are my nakedness
That I tried to postpone
But I could not.

You are a myth I made
From nothingness,
From availlessness,
From meaninglessness,
From steadylessness.
When I became penniless
I sold nothingness for my childhood,
And availlessness for my boyhood,
And meaninglessness for my lust,
And steadylessness for my corpse.
But instead of becoming delighted
My myth shot me!