a new day is dawning tenderly
on rainbow-hued and ocean-scented sheets
the laughter of countless infants
appears on mouthwatering breakfast trays
our screen-free window is always wide open
it invites in the freshly-breeding families of house wrens
their united eyes watch their yet-to-be-hatched eggs
tap dance on cue – uninhibited and carefree
the matured ones chant the elating news the wind brings
amid a gentlest breeze – putting all worries at ease
the resulting love-songs taste like chilled lemonade
on a day of a hottest summer’s blaze
the world has just been declared a problem-free zone
I believe the records date back to the early eleventh century. You would know, my love, as we have also shared our profession. The patients would be seized for an extended procession. To the bloody altar, they would be slowly lowered down. They would begin to drown in the agony of their pain. With a swift gash, their appendix, liver or one of the intestines would appear in its carnage glory. The spectators’ eyes would revel in their gory inventory.
Can you see now, my beloved, how it had felt at the time of my alive-autopsied end?
Do you ever reminisce about our sensation? I do! I had lain on the emerald ground, unwrapping myself in the softness of your scent . . . alongside the compassionate creek of our first encounter . . . cradled by the rays of the afternoon sun.
Do you ever look back on the tiny ripples anew? I do! They had slowed down to honor our euphoric reunion. Witnessing our fiery souls flow into one another, learning and approving.
The wind envied our harmonious spread, and assembled its brutal forces. Thus came the abrupt end. Like a lightning. Fiercely brash.
I had kept my delicate “i” at bay, hoping for you not to float on. I have since pampered, re-dressed and preserved the ‘what ifs’ of our oft-resounding dread. They insist on haunting me yet. My old self thus is entangled in a merciless no-exit-thread.
Would you have possibly favored me instead, had I opted to defy the boulder at the barricade?
Have you ever eaten helva, my love . . . accompanied by the sizzle of the slowly melting butter – anxious in its wait to savor each sugar flake, while the aroma of the browning flour oozes into your delightful breath, and milk drops – raptured in a dance of a most delicate blend, craving the urge to taste the ultimate feast?
Have you ever made helva, my love, when its core ingredients were scarcely found?
* Helva is a traditional Turkish dessert; a sweet dish that is said to have originated in the Middle East and Central and South Asia.
Dear visitor, I am posting my weekly HAIKU not only on audio but also as text this time. My Turkish and German translations appear under their designated headings. What I hope to be a more convenient approach for anyone with potential audio-issues comes to you with my heartfelt thanks to a very dear poet friend, Jean-Jacques Fournier, for his suggestion in this direction. (Thank you also for being an avid reader of my poetry and for leaving your precious comments for me to cherish, dearest Jean-Jacques!)
eager ants at work
hauling loads bigger than life
never losing hope
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