vases! antiques! scented clothes!
when the moon of blues went home, when the beaver ran away from the night, June became red-faced, September, forgetful… nobody told me the truth, I passed through paths, suspended gardens, canyons… in the end I read on a Sumerian tablet: the rose is frightening!
rock graves, temples, darkness of the middle ages… none of this frightened me, nor did guillotines, scissors or vampire bats… I have lived with pirates, dragons and alligators, I have survived the seismic shockwaves… but the rose is frightening!
it is something wild and stirring; away from the midnight but close to daylight… like a red snail, like a sea urchin that rolled down from the slope… it is harmless to the touch, but its smell is of hot blood… like a venus flytrap, like an infection with no vaccine…
altars! ivies! sucking lips!
the rose is frightening!
İlyas Tunç
Translated from Turkish by Robert Berold and the poet
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