Me And You

How do I still flap in your skies,

not afraid of drowning? 

My womb’s been pregnant with demons,

moonlight spilled inside.

Give me back that self of mine!

Thirst quenched sip by sip,

by “you.”

Yet I was as solid as a wooden ship

washed ashore, unbroken.

Neither was I captive to you,

nor could my dreams’ soldiers, 

those hammers pounding on my eyelids, 

make me fear sleep at night.

Now 

the self dies a thousand times,

a thousand times it falls

off steep cliffs.

My heart

will soon be the one hiding

in the backyard of my thoughts, 

the one hanging from the crescent moon,

torn apart.

Captive in a dark dungeon,

poor wretch in this nightmare.

This isn’t me.

I was a butterfly once.

wooden-scented wings embroidered,

painted yellow, white, and gray—

a palette of freedom.

I would sing the song of life

spent on mountains and rocks. 

My story was short.

This dungeon is a black train,

with each carriage carrying a hopeless soul, 

all pointing toward the horizon:

“This road is a road that never ends!

Alas!

This road passes over the Sirat Bridge!”*

My life will end soon.

A butterfly

cannot live here.

The church bells rang from the windy hilltop,

and you, descended from that hill,

your feet soaked in blood,

life in turmoil, lies, and blood,

you caught my wings. 

I was about to escape, headfirst,

before even a grain of sand fell.

A fleeting flight!

I was a butterfly hanging in the air,

and you were the sky.

The sun froze.

All the colors spilled

from the inkpot of the universe.

You stole me.

I remain hidden in you.

The smell of mold stale mud, 

and the black dungeon,

how pitch-dark, desert-dry,

scorching it is!

How utterly bereft you are,

even of the most necessary mirage—

—the one called “you”!

I'm crying—

and dampness 

neither from clouds nor sky

fall inward.

So come—lie beside me.

Let dawn break, shadow by shadow, 

bells on the windy hill

cry out sorrow.

Tell me about Lokman’s* cures.

Tell me the scent of fresh roses.

How the lilacs and purple hyacinths

in those meadows once smelled,

of spring, of abundance.

You, stole me from myself

fed my life into your own!

Tell me of the rain,

of its blessing

the earth,

the sand.

The black dungeon grew cold.

A crystal shard, sharp as the North,

like a star, 

gone thirsty in the cisterns,

cut that hollow wrist.

But today is Hıdrellez*,

a day of renewal!

Bring me back to myself.

Stop this death. Pull it down from its ledge!

The waterfalls were bone-dry.

On the edge of a sunken ship,

green velvet moss

swayed gently back and forth.

And one of the jinn said:

“It’s about to snap!”

“Well, what if it does?”

asked another.

Where is that miracle?

Let it shatter the locks!

Let me be born again 

in this black dungeon

with one sacred breath.

You—

you—

never could make me weep like this.

I, butterfly of mountains and rocks, 

had your eyes not been oceans, 

would never have gone mad,

so utterly wild.

And yet,

you crushed me with torment.

You hanged me at every dawn.

As the great philharmonic rises to its peak,

your tears will fall down your cheeks.

Weep!

They will play the music of the universe. 

Listen!

Lies linger in every particle.

Before your rebellion is caught, 

run, go on, run from that place.

You stole it, 

steal it once more.

Let these wings be yours now:

gray,

white,

yellow.

Hopes sail from the pier,

full sail with the wind.

Catch up to them!

It’s crowded like doomsday; 

hundreds like you,

and so many prisoners, like me.

Sometimes I’m crying at the dock,

sometimes waving goodbye.

The one weeping after you.

Be my return.

Echo reborn

with sacred breath.

Look!

One of the prisoners

tries to escape.

How it ends in ruin.

Vipers crawl out of their mouth, hissing:

“What if it’s all just a nightmare? A lie?”

Soaked in lies illusions,

writhes in the arms of the serpent.

My life will slip between your fingers.

I’ll leave rough ruthless,

sink to the bottom of the well.

And when that moment comes, 

won’t you bury this “me”

deep in stone and soil?

This black shroud.

This body will melt away right here.

And I, 

once called me, 

will finally sail on white-foamed deck

of the ship bound for hope.

Not long now.

Struck by spring’s fire,

the world is about to become pregnant

with summer.

Full sail!

You!

Come lie beside me.

Throw me into the sea, 

let me turn to foam!

Remember

my womb

was pregnant with jinn.

Those jinn will grow into my fears.

They will be born at last,

in blood and chaos.

And when the deck is red with blood,

torn and ruined,

it will be washed with foam,

bathed in goodness.

No sooner are they born,

the three jinn of wishes,

link arms and dance.

Polka! Polka!

This is a cry,

a toast raised to wishes

that never came true.

Goblets shine

like Scheherazade’s eyes,

filled with death,

cold as North Star.

A neck

delicate as thread,

fit for a blade,

and it tells

to stay alive,

story after story.

Death is a next-door neighbor,

passing daily through the threshold.

Death needs but a pinch of ash,

while I am tethered to the thought—

ash is just an excuse.

Goodness begets goodness.

I cast it into the seas.

As it mingles with foamy waters,

kindness swirls and coils,

forming whirlpools. 

In the mirages of all my deserts,

a purple hyacinth floats,

and suspended in the air, 

is a butterfly 

with wings of yellow, gray, and white tulle.

Sirat Bridge*: In Islam eschatology, it is a bridge over Hell that everyone must cross on Judgment Day. It’s said to be thinner than a hair and sharper than a sword. The righteous cross safely to Paradise, while sinners fall into Hell.

Lokman*: A wise, righteous figure, celebrated in Turkish and Middle Eastern folklore, known for his teachings and sometimes legendary healing knowledge.

Hıdrellez*: Hıdrellez is a spring festival celebrated on May 5–6, in Turkiye and parts of the Balkans and Middle East, marking renewal, fertility, and good luck.