Cyclamen

My grandmother’s swing
sways on and on
in the arms of death.
We travel to the utmost
edge of the coast –

A flower
cool to the touch,
as the mountainous cliff.

A sailor’s lantern
does not light the way.

A sailor’s lantern
does not light the way.
Does it shine?
Does death wait
until morning?

Is the lust of Kerem[1]
quenched; does it
penetrate the rocsk
with his love?
A pink cyclamen
heats his flesh
with the burning health
of Asli.

Ali F. Bilir

[1]Kerem and Asli were lovers, one Muslim,. One Christian whose tragic love story is a favorite subject of traveling minstrels, Asiklar, meaning those who are in love.

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