Maybe I was born from the rib of my beloved,

his caress made everything possible.

Perhaps I was born from my father’s headache,

I can’t say exactly -

when that god died, I was a child.

From seafoam? How would I know?

The Black Sea, on whose shore my house stands,

carries black foam and countless tears,

yet dolphins swim up here from time to time.

How would I know how I was born,

which apple my mother and father shared,

which doll they baked from dough,

which flower bud I came from,

which piece of wood they blew breath into,

which word was uttered and which syllable I followed?

I know nothing exactly,

and that’s why, maybe, I write poems -

and if I had known something exactly,

I would not have written.

Anyway,

that’s what I think.