MY HANDS ARE A BONE OF ICE – Binnaz Deniz Yildiz

January 29, 2026

I distilled the chambers of my soul into the soul of a dream
I loved dead deers in the sequence of my eyes
The last frame is the sickly gravity of two large ingots
The magical army of objects, unraveling my memory
The great poem of the grave slept in my palm
I wetted all the landmasses with the death of angels
The matchless splendor of the temples that ate soil
I heard the sound of lost flutes every night
Ibn Sina walked into my emptiness
He pierced my heart with pearl dust
I discovered the lost person of the world
I burned herbs in his garden / I covered myself with blood ashes
I distilled the chambers of my soul into a dream
I saw myself in a black shroud / I pulled my hair to my limbs
Someone ran on my wet stones
A room in metamorphosis / Box sketches on the walls
My lemon-burnt lips / Hear my scream, my hypnosis Freud!
My hands are on the bone table of ice
Too late to die, a memory impossible to live!