Embroidered my peacock’s boson sura by sura
Coveted the spring made out to my name
My breath narrows as the day shines on your memory
Cannot endure this agony
Sting of love, hook of heart
To touch his bread bristle
Wind is more agitated today
My mother does not make loaf today
For our diner table is covered with grief
What a migration, what a grievous flying
Broken wings of my sparrow, stil dashing
Soul aside, body aside
Father! I saw horses run after being shot
Thousand Hıra hidden in the mane, Yasin
Blood dripping on his knees from crupper
Then echo the rough people of yearning
Do not let them shoot
Not to shoot the rearing horses
June 1989
