My poem has a name: Gulbahar Haitiwaji
My poetry has the tears of the keche (night)
Friends come ichmek (drink) from the cup of my trembling words
The earth drowns in the regrets of a vast sacrificial asman (sky)
My love, is God the shuji (secretary) of the devil?
I see the poyiz (train) of history derail in a fire of burnt incandescence

My poem has a name: Gulbahar Haitiwaji
The intoxication of words stops in the corner of the lips of the present
And every passing saet (hour) hits us like a wave of death
My love, is God the shuji (secretary) of the devil?
I see the kün (day) rising on blocks of lives ransacked by drunken shame
The sky is a witness, in this place the water stagnates in their eyes

My poem has a color: Aq (white); like the unbreathability of silence
Like the non-existence of the voice of this ayal (woman)
Who screams the present in the back of the beggars of justice
My poem has a color, my poem is a hope
The shining black of the lempung (agar-agar jam) of this young woman’s beautiful eyes
When she smiled at the sky yesterday, when she danced under that unpunished sky

My poem has a color, a smell, a past, a name
The taste of shoxla (tomato) in coulis lulled by luxuriant illusions
The shamaliq (windy) dreams of China crush the qizil (red) souls
There is in these lines only a desert rain of fright
For our pity is soghuq (cold) and our blindness an issiq (hot) iron

It was perhaps a düshembe (Monday) the ayal (the woman) whose name this poem has taken
Came down from the plane wrapped in the bulletproof vest of oblivion
The airport rustled, the autumn leaves, the tarmac insensitive,
From the neon lights of saqchi (police) a burst of voice Fransuz (French) – his daughter embraces him;
Gulbahar Haitiwaji: my poem has a name today
My poetry has a body and a soul – and breathes the faded smell of hope