I finally made it to your city,
but I was late, Samet,
we couldn’t get together:
I was late by the space of death.
I didn’t want to hear your voice
on tape, samet —
I can’t look at pictures of the dead
without totally dying.
But the day will come
when I’ll totally separate you from yourself, Samet.
You’ll enter the world of respectable memories.
And I’ll lay flowers on your grave
without tears in my eyes.
Then the day will come
when what happened to you
will happen to me, too, Samet.
