by Ece Apaydin
I have registered to the school of the night every September throughout my destiny
I came out of the empty houses and walked to the empty classrooms
I am learning to be filtered as a waste in the unsecured avenues
where rain is rooted and animals give puppies in every six months
as a waste along the canal
as you did not accompany me I quited cost of my happy sinking
with wooden wings with the deep flow of the sleep
My destiny goes deeper my garden scrolls to the house continuously
the house is closing to rooms the rooms to closets the closets to the shrill pipe holes
who cares the metallic air of love ! passing from a chaste whipsaw place by singing.
what an unfortunate experience ! And those of my curls
which its finish is proceeding to explanation
will never learn the truth
A slab is hanging on my neck. those coming from the north of the water
being excavated on the night school hour
and the faces that I remembered from the very old days. prehistoric men.
the inclined stance of the musical bones on the foot metatars whispering
the song of the walk that is more powerful and equipped. this is water bird.
the bird of timelessness that the fingers are wandering on the keys.
and this ballerina. as you did not accompany it won the harmony of the challenge
You know what? The night school is full with those like him. armor and cactus
new lunges should have been invented. kisses with uniformty. silk coverings.
a new rose that is selected among others at the first glance - those are the ones
that has been looking for by the larynx and the hysteria that is masqueraded into a letter -
the writing says so a prose is real
I blamed you for returning back in 76. a faucet that is
gradually twisting the dative of flood
I wore to you this tension between the soap and the foam
this bridal dress between Melissa and my scent. my body
took strong precautions blue velvets
Such letters comes to the school of the night
the letters come and go that are the parts of an oblivion radiating into time - the
kernels of the sun in the fruit plates. the part of the sweet crackle that is breaking the cold
of the buzzing of a welcoming sea shell
of a tale that is taking part between the fishbone and the sea
and I did not look to my hands even though the rocks are cracked
The town is quiet as usual. the tears on my face will never dry
those falling between the slab and my neck
are in the metallic air of the horizons.
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)
Last updated June 12, 2016