all over Anatolia
children's graves
marked with crosses
often defaced
by the descendants
of those Young Turk murderers.
Yes. We are dead: throats slit,
buried alive, no longer a threat
no longer a millet, no longer haram.
We were thrown into the dark
beneath the beech trees,
besides the judas tree.

Sometimes small gatherings of stones
mark our graves
the moon and the stars pass over us.
Often buried by the roadside,
where we dropped dead of starvation.
There is no spring in Anatolia 
even when the Judas trees are blooming
we are in mourning. Our enemies' triumph is our land's defeat.