My Hands Go to My heart

I wish I had taken trips,
I say to myself, to unknown places,
that people were less strange to each other
than our own feelings.

I return to this familiar point
and feel, along the bank of the river,
wind sweeping away
all the footprints in the sand.

Whenever I read a poem
about separation,
my hands go to my heart.

By Ali F. Bilir
Translated by M. Ali Sulutas
Edited in English by Susan Bright