Mesopotamia Şiiri - Bahar Ada

A terrifyingly exhausting day—
and terrifying news.
Cases carved into history.
Trials, encounters.

I’ve carved you into history too,
a witness before me—again and again.

I will not carve bitter emotions into such painful lines.
I will not fill my eyes with tears.
Vague—and yet blindly sharp.
Don’t worry.

Because I have no strength left.
No energy.
Not even a bitter taste in my mouth.
What does “see you” even mean?
I’ve long forgotten.

A half-burned cigarette in my hand,
a gas heater beside me.
Clinging to cold in your absence,
my existence is now a burden from the past.
My right knee is swollen—
throbbing,
where your final step pulses in my groin.

To my womanhood—
those cursed “see yous” are a slur.
Tell me,
will we really see each other again,
or is this the last day of sight?

Why is it not eighty-four,
not eighty-two,
but exactly eighty-three years they ask for me?

Does my desire for equality fall
in the year of the pig in the Chinese calendar?
Is this death
the punishment for wanting to taste both Justice and Love?
What am I judged for—
on what basis,
and what will they say, tomorrow,
about today?

Will they speak of my immeasurable love
for humanity,
or the white-capped sea
I clung to with stubborn defiance?

You are beautiful again, Love—
for the first time in a long while.
And thanks to you, everything is wildly red.

Will these chaotic nights
keep us alive?
When will your laughter next
bring light to this room?

Smoke, not tears, falls from my eyes now.
But soot.
Black and sticky.
The only thing left behind—
this tar.

Gulê