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.
that’s what I think.