If minarets lengthened their shadow
unraveled threads of blue carnations
as far as the hair
of these disillusioned shoeshine boys
come see your shoes shine like stars for a dime
time would stop
at the corner of shame
at the hotel Mercure.
Time would topple
on bewildered wings
to the rug
of repentance.
And Beyoglu
would suddenly resound
with games and cries
a boy running at breakneck speed
racing ships’ prows on the canal
searching for sturdy reeds
along the drains
green ones to strip
then
up on the bridge to fish
with grapes from Smirne in his pockets
till the sun goes down.
The Golden Horn would see
its reflections still playing
in his vanilla hair
in the hook wriggling
in the glint
of boyhood pride.
Come evening
the Great Bazaar of dreams
sinks
into jellyfish pulp
emerald sultans
like green lizards
when I’m older I want to be a captain, merchant, fisherman
Anis and saffron
on his pillow.
Translation by Anamaria Crowe Serrano