Poems

Galata

I love a tower
At night on its axis
spinning/rotating like magnets
I am one of the white phosphorescent seagulls

We squeezed into a frame black and white
It was an extended autumn cool and light
My beloved was majestic 
A story older than stone and roots, its ending
always finished with me

It had become a habit I would lift my head in the ferry
I would look for it, if it was still there
I would do my duty

Of course it was difficult what did you think
to stay in one piece in this city without being grinded
when everything was being demolished/falling apart
it was the only one standing timelessly
And as I looked at it I would ask myself, true
why was my heart always so naïve/inexperienced
which we were simply referring to being a fool/dupe
among ourselves then until tears would come to our eyes
we were laughing

I would call it the tower of the wind
The person at the very top, neighbour to the clouds
Istanbul would run in circles (to please it) as it was wandering around
The stones of the past hundreds of years would slide
with today’s rain

“Shall we lower the sky to Galata
and live eternally/forever?”
said a wall writing
whoever wrote it I wanted them to ask me
every time I walked past

I opened my arms and embraced it 
The stone lover warmed up inside my palm

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