(Marys of my country! When death becomes a necessity let us, mothers, face it first not our children.)

The nation is lonely
like the loneliness of father-Adam
before the fertile arrival of mother-Eve.
The nation is lonely
and I am lonely.
The mushroom of boredom rose in my heart
but I didn’t get weary.
The warm bread of my laughter
got mouldy
and I was like a pregnant woman, you-poet!
Neither did I miscarry my poem
nor poetry miscarried me.

Jesus, when will you come?
I am about to fall off
the Sirat* -bridge of waiting.
I have cried so much in the home of love and poetry
the bottom of my pond of tears is covered with algae
Even without poetry I am waiting
waiting for a path
waiting for you
I keep talking without avail-
It is not clear to me
whether I am telling you about the earth
or about myself.

After a nausea
you were a piece of light
you fell from the wound of my mouth.
After your birth my word-bleeding did not stop
blood made me into a poet
or the mad poet Marry.

I came and built the bridge of giving
between the land of my heart
and the sky of your skull.
My bleeding continues
Will I bleed forever?
You were not born yet
and the cross looked for you everywhere.
If I knew it will not be kind to you
I would have told you to come when you were born
and return to the calm body of your own mother.
If I knew they would call you God’s son
I would not let you come
If I have never slept a night with God
he would not be my son’s father
and if I had seen his embrace
why should they call me The Virgin?


You- light of my eyes!
You say it yourself
am I purer or Marry?
Am I more in love or Marry?
Is the wound of my heart bigger
or her wound?
I won’t say anything, you say it
you- light of my eyes!
You loving singer!
My own Jesus!
Don’t call me poetic Marry
I will get scratched, I will hurt.
In my mothering, I am kinder than Marry
Marry and me
differ in this-
I should go blind, I cannot close my eyes
if I don’t buy your life with my own
I will not crouch in the corner of complacency
if I don’t get crucified in your place.
We differ in this-
unlike her, I cannot give you to anyone, not even to God,
my heart won’t let me.
God has not been a mother
he does not burn for you and does not worry about losing a child.
Motherhood is a grave sorrow
I became a mother
before I was a woman.

If I have created Jesus I am not concerned
if you raise your knife at me
and doubt my virginity.
Jesus of sand…
Jesus, father…
I exist so that I expose the lying world
I won’t wait for your death
just this once, my only child
instead of your grey and sorrowful guitar
embrace your mother’s corpse
I am certain I will die before you
I won’t live for the day that my lap
sees your death.

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