kahve - these turbid waters remind me. dur barak kaynasun kahve nin suyu. indeed. i wonder if the Ottomans, in their thousand years of wars, have ever stood by a boiling river, where the mutilated bodies of the elders soak and bloat, mingle and float with eroded futures of unborn youths.
i visit Meranti here, her placeless grave. i glimpsed her unfamiliar face on the pages of the Quarterly Journal of Economics, and then again between the lines of a novel titled A review of Dipterocarps: taxonomy, ecology and silviculture by Simmathiri Appanah and Jennifer M Turnbull, Eds. i thought i should pay some respects. some futile respects.
i was bitter, like the turkish kahve in the song i sang by the half-eaten bank. it was unsure footing - to stand by her remains. dwarfed in a galaxy of detail. here her family falls as she had fallen. in their destruction they remain silent. as if it was only the tempestous monsoon touching their brown and green roughness. as it if was only an armored beetle tapping their fluids. they remain silent.
the ground washes under my feet, into the turbid kahve, again. the mud draws patterns on their tapered bodies. there one can read a fortune from the graceful but temporary filligrees. wings, broken circles and spirals. the gushing water whirls and makes the future uncertain. the mud changes face again.