Your Tired Heart With A White Ribbon

Your tired heart with a white ribbon,
Shared by Ansar and Muhajir in poverty,
The old medina houses smell now,
In the midst of too much abundance to vomit.

As if clogged in the veins of life,
Like mountains covered with a huge winter,
You flow through the tunnel with your back bent,
From the unopened eyes of babies.

You kiss from your unreasonable smiles,
It's like a kiss to the mane of rough sculptures,
Your heart is the floor tables in sackcloth rugs,
Heavens on the sky, threshing breath.

Not lined up on the crop like halal morsels,
Sickle in the calloused palms of Uryan babies,
Smooth land on their ironless faces,
In pak breaths, dürcük soups.

While we are decent like a village, always dreaming of the beautiful,
Boiling the knots with a thousand and one ordeals,
Nene, whose enthusiasm is attached to the tandoor,
Ancestors hugging tobacco.

Your heart is stale loaves in a tinless bowl,
Those who embroider the awls like a rosary,
Dumb tunes in the tongues of aunts,
The senior always insists on purity.

Like the earth waiting for its rain,
Because anatolia can't hold on without sincerity,
And don't look at the wrestler standing,
He can't stand in a sphere of nylons, soulless.

Pain swings in your swinging eyes,
It's like two marbles looking at the children,
Rolling relentlessly into your heart,
Your memory wants to lose itself.

You are always surrounded by those wire fences,
Starring the dreams of childhood,
Heaven on the outside, hell on the inside,
So much, so cool, so many fires,
You were an inaccessible lodging park.