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Onat Kutlar

THE SATRAPS

a cloudy morning
it was
the sands of an hourglass called loneliness
pelting my face, I think
the crowd
ever so fleet-footed
the forest ever so slowly moved away
and the days of sea
were of the past

a seagull cut the desert
a scream
I hit the distant mountains
with wings of stone
no one
is following me, I think
rose and cherry orchards
once filling your pockets with flowers
are burnt down

I am on the horse of times past
the cloak
your hair
had been knitting for years
went dark
I won’t return, I think
long shrouded in mist
is the cloudy
temple of days gone

autumn eagles are making their return
we are close
to the sarcophagi of the satraps
the darkness
almost descends
from prairie-grey rocks
the three-headed dog in the corner
stares
at the oozing blood

we reached already
the river’s end

Translated from Turkish by Mustafa Ziyalan