Yekta - 1.3

the learned sciences of fear
the ritual of the knife on the throat passed
I ran all my life long
to blur my image
to rob my retort
I did everything to abstain from memories
I was deaf to calls
an arrow going through the targets
laughing at my unfaithful reflections

so pale are my answers
so blurred is my mouth
that no one has anything left
to read on my lips
no more glances to grasp
no more lies to thwart
my eyes are roasting in all aims
and the mauve wine of insomnia makes me up
the beds didn’t know how to keep track of my figure
nor did grass bend under my steps

I divide myself into a thousand approaches
I come down to gossips
if someone speaks to me
the tones of his voice are mine
if someone touches me
its prints belong to me