Baklava

The happenings in Turkey reminds me of this poem that I had written a few years ago after a two month opportunity to live among its beautiful people, experience its culture and weep a little for its pain…

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On a wet afternoon we entered barefoot the mosque of tourists
and worshippers and photographed a beautiful boy of twelve
who smiled and said he was dressed for circumcision. Outside
we watched swooping pigeons and bargained for yoyos and postcards
on earth that knew the tremor of horses of empires that rose and fell
and people that sullenly accepted the will of rulers and their religions.

We crossed a bridge over strait of blue water from continent to continent
and wept from tall buildings overlooking the city of Istanbul on mornings
when buses began their faithful ply and nights when angelic intruders
entered our room of bed-bunks and varied literature. Our friends,
they discovered little Americas and rushed in to gobble up king burgers
and shared their family tragedies and God’s mercies between songs, walks.

I know not where she came from, but she sang the sad song of Turkey

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