Sarı Ev – The Yellow House

The walls cracked with my mother’s voice,
a faded world behind the windows.
A child growing in silence,
a falling star losing its sound.
Melting before it touches the earth,
vanishing into the quiet.
I got lost behind a whisper,
drifting among the stars.
The moon gently erases its traces,
whispers scatter into the night.
If I reach out my hands,
they fade—like trying to hold a shadow.
The sky feels distant but familiar,
the stars are always in the same place.
Every time they yelled at me,
I learned to swallow the silence.
Inside me, there is glass that never breaks,
but cracks every time I speak.
I was left behind in a half-open doorway,
like a shadow shivering in the cold.
A yellow house lingers inside me,
its curtains heavy with faded memories,
its floor still holding my footprints.
There is still a table there,
with unfinished words on top,
broken glasses,
and the echo of a child’s voice—
etched into time, never fading.
Laughter fills the garden,
sunlight spilled across the tablecloth,
and in the corner, a quiet chair,
waiting for its emptiness to be filled.
I have started painting that house,
not knowing which color I will become.
On my brush, pale mornings,
in my hands, old winds.
For a lifetime,
I will either know I never belonged there
or carry its yellow inside me.