Kış Bitti (winter İs Over)

"I've studied the art of farewell,"

specialized in exile.

I've learnt how a boat puts out from port.

Learnt the bitterness of a train whistle.

For years I lived on letters, lived

on smuggled tobacco, banned

publications. I've not forgotten a thing.

Nothing. Ever.

In the icy loneliness of the steppes

the sails at sea were what I missed the most.

There were no mountains, no mountains:

I leant back on the winds.

Was I out of my mind? A prisoner, say,

in the heart of darkness?

The blood dried -

and I was a rose, blown into flower.