the tap is turned on, and your fragments spill out, transparent as teardrops
life is tethered to fiber-optic cables, yet death remains,
behind a pride that has grown flawless lies a mass of lava, rigid and unyielding as a mountain
perhaps that lord, flowing within a river that knows neither beginning nor end,
how many more times will he rescue you, in the guise of a corpse from another century?
as i lose myself in the throngs of the apparent world, the amazon within me shivers,
owls, their colors borrowed from winter, call out from behind wire fences
evening falls, the subways grow dark, and the soul drifts in deep waters,
the waves churn and foam, pierced by the stakes driven in by hook-nosed men
standards are raised, encampments pitched, this is no mere ceremonial drum,
it is the hollow decree of a saint carving sounds from the void, the unheeded counsel of a dervish.
The horizon closes, all voyages come to an end, a searing lock fastens upon the tongues of the seas,
and all that remaining is a deceptive, hollow opulence.
English Translation by Mesut Şenol