“The Autobiography of the Past”

by Enver Ali Akova (translated by Melih Levi)

It all happened so fast

There was no more doubt about what we had

Nor something to doubt.

A plain state of silence and darkness. In fact,

our struggle to color this, to think about this state,

is how we wasted away. Icarus, smashed right

in the middle of an otherwise-serene order.

Why is it that we spoil like a fruit?

The melting of the rocks which split the stream into two, or more

with artificial ticktocks, should one call this natural

(what is natural and does not spoil?)?

Remembering and shadow feel senselessly identical

When one sees the mother the first word; mother . . .

Even remembering was senseless, we were in a limbo.

Rocking on a squeaky bus, elderly people going onstage

in elderly roles, yes they are scared, but will they stay

in character after they die?