Yekta - 1.12

I brush past the overcoat that roams on the trace of gin-perfumed girls
and stare at the knife that makes the inventory of a corpse under the porch
of a hotel

I inhale the smoke that brings a feast of burned meat to our window

I finger the black mark that death dressed up as
a calendar seller leaves us on the palm of our right hand

I flip through the annals of suffering
stroke the stamp of surnames
that only left the epitaph of blood
on the walls of collective memory

I climb down the foul grave with the fever of the headsman
because I know that in the shade of monsters a rare truth is being sketched
on man

I taste the water dropped by the naked handmaid that winter changes into
a white statue
and I lick the razor that makes youth potions blush

I kiss the hand that shakes at the back of the sick despot
and I polish the clubfoot of the devil that prowls at the edge of villages

I wipe out the index blackened by statistics
I accompany the pencil that philosophizes in the register margins
while the numbers of the deferred corpses are filing past
on the gleaming glasses of the civil servant