I am drawn with lines
that by their composition
ought unwavering to delineate
harmony from hope,
yet which in the quavering
quiet of silken dawn
have become such loose
configurations, figuring
nothing more substantial
nor more reasonable than
a porously palletted dusk,
a pondering of apathetic dread.

And yet I weep for you
for the loss of you still,
for the incessant chattering
of this soul mournfully
decrying another day,
another solitary night—
silent now fall, o you
entombed by an abundance
of sins no more egregious
than that of the moon
who looks ever on and on
and does nothing more.

İstanbul 02 January 2021

1 thought on “weep

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