they shot me down on Bursa Street
in a sunless morning
green wine leaked from my wrists
the calloused hand of a garbage man in my hair
heaps of Picaddilly girls in the corners of my eyes
drunken men walked in my palms
my life line, in the nail of a boot
in a sunless morning
they shot me down on Bursa Street
moldy smelling girls carried me holding my arms
sweaty village children
hands like tribes
teeth yellow
of all that there is yellow
of all the things pale
lilac colored eyes lips black
on Picaddilly girls
they shot me down on Bursa Street
my name in the pages of an evening paper
are the floors of all police stations cold like this?
the stairs humid in August?
since that day I am afraid of sunless mornings
since that day I’m in every curbstone of that street
by Zeki Muren
Another poem I translated. Bursa is my hometown and everlasting love which I missed to every stone in it.
