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The deads
wait for visitors in the
peace land of silence
The
mornings are condemned
to sun and, tombs are
longing for festival.
While the
sounds of exalting God
are mixed with flurry,
tomorrows are waiting
for judgment day,
The
festivals are in the
children’s rainbow and
hopes are in the clouds
Christmas
love on one hand and
Ramadan abundance on the
other hand,
On the
celebrated festivals
Mardin is the sacred
temple of God.
The grand
mosque is afterlife
peace, hearts are at
commemoration position
Civilizations tinkle at
your heartbeat, in the
Artuklu convent
Water
takes its inspiration
from zamzam, the wells
are cool.
As if
Mardin looked like henna
coloured bride on the
festival days
While
Kýrklar Church shouts
its joy by bell,
Mesopotamia listens to
Islamic call beyond
millenary...
The hands
kissed are symbol for
labour loyalty, visits
are gratitude to elders
The
swings haul the wind and
ascend dreams
Embroidered houses
friendly sing folk song
for courtyard
Grief is
concealed in the
memories; eyes are
addicted to former
festivals
As
passion becomes pattern
for naphthalene smelled
scarf,
Mardin is
the best story in the
childish dreams
As
carriages made of wood
hoist sail to magic
lands
Candies
are paradise sweet of
hope...
Clothes
to wear look like king
crown
Eyvans
(front opened rooms) lay
food table to guests
Mothers
have spices odorous
My
father’s eyes shed tears
for his died young
brother
There are
guests’ shoes as many as
ladder steps
Contrary
to streets the soil
roofs are ready for
marble games
Lament to
the past in Mardin
begins on the former
festivals
Eyestears
shed for tiny died
bodies who didn’t
experience life
The
Mardin festivals
beginning by lute tune
Shine on
the deeply bleached
hairs today.
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