We were people of another world and that world was so dark

There must have been people who left a mark on you in your childhood and whose traces you kept alive in your memories. Some of them you feared and some you loved very much.

A special attribute for him, a thing or coughing, eating, talking, mimics and tics have always been hidden in a corner of your mind.

Even places, gardens, stones, even the sticks we were beaten with are remembered by that person's name.

My past suffocates me like it takes my breath away.

It's like I've sworn not to shed tears.

Again, uneasiness gripped my heart.

A lump in my throat does not go away when I swallow.

If I tell my pain in lines, I will not be relieved.

Each line pierces my chest like an arrow.

I'm going to leave my poems behind me.

Can you own them?

She was the oldest grandmother in our neighborhood. When I went to visit his house, I always sat at his knees out of fear. He wouldn't caress my head. His face was wrinkled, and his wrinkled eyebrows were absent. Since the first day I opened my eyes and met him, I had not seen a single tooth in his mouth.

When he opened his mouth and spoke, when he sighed deeply, I always compared his mouth to the dark tree bark or the well by the cedar stone.

If we find a face next to him and squirm a little, he will immediately point to the stick tucked in the attic.

 Bring me this pomegranate stick," he would immediately put us in line.

We were so afraid of that pomegranate stick on the ceiling.

We would look at where he was and feel the whistling sound he made while whisking wool with him, we would even be scared of his presence on the ceiling where we sat.

The only place he came to when he was bored was next to my grandmother.

He would sit on the corner cushion in the iwan, give a side to the grass pillow, and say tumpa to the road, the street, the field.

I have never heard it said to people, living things, animals.

My grandmother would make tea and drink a pot of tea together by dipping a finger buscuit together.

 There is a piece of me in every line.

I put the things that broke my heart into pieces into lines.

I want to go but I can't.

I will be lost.

My heart is frozen, my heart is bleeding.

I'm drawn into the dark.

I'm lost in the whirlpool I've been sucked into.

He used to slurp the tea while drinking it so much that I have never seen someone who slurps like him in my life.

Then he would take a silver sheet out of his pocket, dig up his tobacco, stretch it out, then place it on paper between his two fingers and twist it so patiently that no touch smokers could roll straight tobacco like him.

I would follow him from a distance, what would I not think about.

The blue flowers of his shirt, the red woolen threads he tied to the ends of his hair, the henna he applied to his fingernails, the woven belt on his waist, the huge anchor that the inside pocket of his vest fastened to the mouth, what and what...

When he inhales the smoke of his tobacco and coughs deeply,

My grandmother gets angry at her;

He used to say, "Still take a little bit of the smoke of my shit"..

He would only smile at that word of hers at that moment.

Maybe a one-second, maybe half-second smile. Maybe it would come to me.

It was as if he was still a person from another world, and that world was very dark. He never spoke, he never said.

I didn't know why it was so harsh.. Why did he always want to beat us with a pomegranate stick? Other sticks hurt very little.

When I grew up and my mind was enough, I heard her darkness when Aunt was not alive, that wool stick was made of a pomegranate tree that blooms in flour but does not bear fruit.

That the name of the pomegranate tree is Jack.

That your aunt's young son drowned in the Euphrates.

The colors of your memories are the true colors of your life.

to mix these colors,

Don't encourage anyone.