Yekta - 1.8

from fragments of bottles to distorted tables
from shreds of skirts to unpaired shoes
on the roofs the terraces
in the grey night of smokes
light crawls
the dust sticks on our tongue
like a refrain without lyrics
like the sugar of a kiss that awoke us
I go thanks to the threads strung over the void
between two erected shouts two erected syllables
I walk in the middle of a fable
in which forgotten things talk to themselves
and slowly I elbow my way
to the centre of the net
like the pilgrim who lifts up
every stone on his path
I am looking for my soul
behind the windows
that mirthlessly laugh on their labyrinths