I could see you, on your lips were sticky words and you were insensitive
toward the cedar trees. You were looting the sea minarets and then leaving
them behind; the mother-of-pearl shells were aching.
In your beach bags a bit of Webster, eccentric! Marquez and
Ulysses never to be read…
As if Poseidon would appear from the waves. Excitement in your
flip-flops, blood in your napless eyes.
In your gin-induced comas you were dragging by the hair a poor old
man enamored of himself.
Translated by Suat Karantay