Sword

   The seas of vagabondage. The octopus beached on the
shore of unhappiness. My son is a queen. He has spread
his wings. Wrapt himself in taffeta. He forgets his father
was burnt as a sorcerer. He winters in Salonica.

   He talks to a woman. Of Misrayim. A purple horse,
his tiredness without fault. Falls asleep among the rocks.
Why the sea rises, no one knows. O sunken ships, O
black shimmers of exile! I am a weeping half-breed.

   Pessimism is an untellable sword I carry round my
waist.

                                           ECE AYHAN
                                           trans. MURAT NEMET-NEJAT