Derya Önder

Three sisters and brothers were we, just before the windows were broken

Brought up were we, in the houses with gardens without trees

An ill-omened winter was it. Maybe in December

In the dead of winter, if ever it disturbed mother

Never had we ever seen such a downpour piercing in the houses

A crimson love, a crimson sunset, growing up were we, slowly and silently

An overpouring despair was it, in fact, the make-believe prayer and the night