a huge wind swooped down from bulgaria,
bringing nearness that made
the whole suburb go down.
everyone’s mind was reeling,
the picture and the sound came off and on,
and tonight a man
simply collapsed
and died in the middle of istiklal.
people gathered,
gave a piece of advice,
one tried to resuscitate him,
another to open his clenched fist:
to no avail!
to no avail!
two police cars arrived,
the ambulance and a passing khojah.
some took photos;
you can’t photograph death!
I muttered to myself
in croatian,
convinced no one would understand
that cheap provocation.
the wind lifted cardboard boxes
hurling them toward taksim.
a group of street players played frantically,
without stopping, as if running from something,
fifty meters away they were from the dead body
that was being wrapped in a black bag,
the way the police usually do that.
no, no, not a single initial movement ceased!
no, no, no one stopped advertising durum and roast chestnuts!
the sirens merged with the sounds of other sirens!
ten minutes later at the very same spot
barefoot boys playing traditional instruments
were rearranging
complicated tunes.
there were those others there,
on the other side of the street,
but the news did not reach them.
Translated by Mario Susko