The smoke
the mosques
and the seagull flight
The tumult
of the music
of the Mosque
after the sunset
the spikes of towers
piercing the skies
of Istanbul
The heavy sounds
of prayer
and Turkish songs
from passing ferries
the cluster buildings
rising through the hills
the seagulls’ watch
over the sea
The ships are docked
nobody will go nowhere
We sit out here
to await the end of prayer
The hills are singing
and the seagulls praying
and the young Turks
smoke the Nargile
and rest
with their faces
that look like our faces
their voice
sounds like our voice
they are not
murderers
they are doctors
musicians and accountants
and pushy carpet salesmen
at the Bazaar
They have a face
so like our own
that betrays not
the rot
of History
Behind these mountains
was a land
my kin did
call their own
and I have seen
the skulls
set on a speer
for all to see
The skies are calm
the darkness coming
the Mosque awaits
but not for me
