It’s night again,
harsh and cold.
Things go missing, relentlessly.
Its long since I heard my mother!
Is she fine?
Does she think of me?
Better not, if it makes her cry
She cries, the only defense at her disposal.
My father, I can see him walking and looking back
I don’t know how I got this image of him,
as someone who walks and looks back,
as if hearing a call back.
We didn’t get on well,
but he kisses my forehead when I leave
now I am miles away form his kiss.
What about your father?
Do you get on well?
Why didn’t he hear you when you cried on the cross?
Fathers and sons they forsake each other.
Luckily I will not have children,
I don’t want to see them crying
nor see me looking back.
I also believe what Pamuk said,
“Death of the son begins with the death of the father”
I don’t want to initiate their death.
I free my sons from all the curse of Oedipus
Yes, they are not there..