You live in your own inner city, which you bought in a

silent auction.

You were again unable to cancel your debts.

Under your blackening eyelids you try to feel certain

things.

Without noticing your withdrawal from self, you leave for

distant parts

by using your ropes of thought like a ski-lift.

Your shudders increase as you touch the numberless elements.

In your screams at the moment when you feel the jolts

from the echoes

of your words crossing the threshold of your thought,

you send birds fleeing before you. As you breathe, your

roses wither.

In your moments of madness, crystals fall from your roof.

As your field of thought shrinks, your city expands. You

exhaust yourself

from running down the streets and avenues.

As the lamps of your voltage machines alight upon your

nights,

your humans robotize themselves.

The toads in your dirty waters frighten even the crocodiles.

Your inner journey makes you grow older.

Your internal cries amplify themselves.

You manifest difficulties with forty paws.

The auxiliary cells of your laboratories do not give you

the opportunity to live any pleasurable moments.

While the fear indicator inside you slackens you through

and through, you

have not

even the possibility of speaking. With each movement of

the clock,

the seasons rip themselves out of your heart.

Your solitude traverses your spirit without cease.

by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI

Mantes la Ville - 22.09.2002

Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français

French free verse translated into English free verse

by F.J. Bergmann - 16.02.2003

SERAP

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