1 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. 2 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. 3 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. 4 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. 5 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. 6 Time... it is me. Time... it is you. You who had no train, And I who had neither station nor railways. 7 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. 8 I was surrounded by winter And its lies and drizzles. So I tried to surround it by my letters, But I burned and drowned. 9 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. 10 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? 11 You, who are you? You are a perfect murder Lacking nothing but a bullet And a murderer’s quiet smile. 12 You are a perfect murder Lacking nothing but me. 13 You are an invitation to lust I am frightened to write Because my alphabet is heavenly And my moony pen is full of secrets. 14 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. 15 You are music running away To the depth of rains So as to sleep. 16 You are a body which lost its dot And tried to kill me in the passage. 17 You are a myth walking on feet. 18 You are my nakedness That I tried to postpone But I could not. 19 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!