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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-02-24 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
Oh… Emirgan
the moon is lose stroking the back of the mountain/troubled the phosphorescence missed its light the sea-gulls/don’t exist angry steamship spoilt ripping the blue atlas/jealous I’m imitating for the day how many times my eyes kissed with ardent desire, both shores of Bogaz I’m under the plane tree so many times I have dreamt of at the proper consistency of the black-sea my tea is steep I’m making love to its glass the waiter is angry at tables dirty wind touched his eyes murmuring and sweeping the ashes I’ve picked on my cigarette with my grudging lighter I’m burning one after another to your kindness, old plane tree, which I lean my back mourning old tap offended hiding things from the history with its pale marbles on its grey mossy roof words are pending I’m thinking of its mystery can’t solve and that…I want the old Emirgan. Poem by: Atilla Elüstün 29/4/2004 - Emirgan/İstanbul Translation by: Günsel Djemal - London
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