It is morning – Tuesday!
The spring is fat
like a castrated tomcat.
Behind the high walls of the houses in mahallah
someone’s waking to a cough.
Paul Celan’s wandering look
gets stuck at the top
of a cypress.
Resting there
like a shot-down sun
releasing a yellowish butter of light.
The houses, the fortresses
blown up from the inside
are resting in ruins.
The way someone chews food
can easily turn into an unbearable experience.
You find refuge in a dream
as if fleeing before the Barbarians.
You wake up reluctantly getting into
the heavy armor of a short-lived future
marked by the money
you have to set aside for utilities.
In fact, the night has the color of coffee.
Soon the former proletarians will begin they daily quarrels.
* Mahallah – Old Turkish quarter.