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Library of Wind
M. Bülent Kılıç
for
the sake of the lust caused by mediocrity
I was heroically spending my sensitivity
my
whole being had emulated such a deep slumber that
I was not surprised to see my heartbeats scattering clippings of
dreams
I was dispassionate, magisterial, smiling and shaved
I was hopping powdering saffron behind my steps
and
I was at a leisurely pace climbing to the top of a brand new
mountain
(had
I but a song with me for the troubles that I failed to anticipate
a
thin bough for a fight)
at
the summit,
on
the transparent divan of the night
under
my head
like
the docile dogs of the defeated
was
a very soft pillow,
and
I would scatter,
to the wind,
my oath that is left to be a rusty bit of dust out of being grinded
over and over again
and
perhaps I would sleep for a while
perhaps
I would feel no pain
and
before my eyes would appear a library of wind
I would intuit each book my hand points absent-mindedly
as written in a missing alphabet.
I would not touch.
at
the place where I fell down with my eyes shut
--white grass talking sweetly under the ancient stones--
I would make a wish of
a flower, stalk and twisted
towards
a big water
so that I would not wonder the reason for the tide.
It would come true.
and
I’d say “Then it is not that bad”
“see, it is not that bad” would I murmur myself.
but
when
I broke into the impossible
and
entered from its door
alas
what I merely found
was
wasteland
hot
sun was testing a snake’s patience with the shadow of a pebble
It was not that bad and there was still some hope
snake’s
patience was heavier than the snake itself
snake’s
patience was heavier than the snake itself
Ankara,
ağustos-eylül '97
from The Library of Wind
Translated by
Mine Özyurt Kılıç
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