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Monad

Seasons die with gypsies, tents, and dirges, Stakes in empty spaces become the gravestones of time. Waters rush to mend thousands of cracks in the past, A celebration toward another season, A dark merriment. The darkening sky increasingly resembles the earth, Makeup from the depths on one, Gloom is winter, black on another's back. Is it the mourners or the rejoicers, or is it the sad hearts that pour out in love? The vanished ones are green poems written on leaves, Erased on who-knows-which page. A door opens to the outside, then mussels, who knows when inside, And who knows whose fancy it is rushing now, Carnations from head to toe. I told you, the worst of all, to the one you've fled, you're enthralled Neither you nor I nor us. I told you, wine and adagio tell their tales in turn, Stacked joylessness upon joylessness, and neatly so, as if it were better than nothing. Praising the leech clinging to the self, Here you go, I don't love you, but I'm inevitable, You've eaten the way of denial, it's over, what a waste. So tell them to ring the bells. That's not from me either, forget it. Is it possible to go back while confessing without restraint Let their voices be heard. Forgetting is part of it, too, forget that, too. I'm telling you, let the bells ring, Let their voices be heard, Let them be ashamed. The child's forehead's scale is breaking, At that moment, he'll fish with his eyebrows, He'll undress. Get ready. Though so many beautiful things will be lost without luster in the light, So many lovers, so many lies. Wait for them to love the nakedness of homes without hearts Let them leave footprints buried in the seas, As history rains from the sky, short. As distances fade, you'll forget and go. Let them burn and vanish in time. I told you, adios Nonino. Forgetting, akin to death, it is.

Aylin K. Yılmaz

Page, 2023 Digital Painting & Collage 3840 × 4800 px/jpeg