How beautiful it is to remember you:

among death knells and news of victory,

in prison

and over the age of forty…

How beautiful it is to remember you:

your hand, forgotten on a piece of blue fabric

and in your hair

the graceful softness of my beloved Istanbul soil…

Like a second human inside me

the happiness of loving you…

the smell of the geranium leaf left on your finger tips

A sunny comfort

and the call of flesh:

divided by crimson lines

a warm, dense darkness…

How beautiful it is to remember you,

To write about you,

To lie back in prison thinking about you;

Words you uttered on a certain day and a certain place,

Not themselves

but the world in those words…

How beautiful it is to remember you:

I should carve something wooden for you again

a drawer

a ring,

and I should weave fine silk about three…