İf you hurt a Long haired heart's they say That makes you lose your hair Yet my father’s only beloved is my mother, And so it is with my mother too. If you do not wash off the salt of the sea, its seaweed will pull you down. If you do not wash off the dragonflies, from the murky lotus ponds’ mud and mist— Since Köroğlu of Bolu, the mountain women live their days through the embroidery they stitch while knitting socks. And as the sun rises and sets, always, in its bending, it gathers itself again. These plains do not belong to the winged who perch upon them. Our milk and yogurt are pure, let them be pure. Our dog does not snarl at friends, and roses bloom in our garden nothing has been quite the same. Since my grandfather But the pines he planted on the hill where he prayed still resist— against the fire, against the creatures of fire. They become shadow in prostration, they become hand to the forest.