By Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı
We died expecting something of death.
The magic was undone in a huge space.
How not to remember now that song,
Piece of sky, bouquet of branches, feather from bird,
Living was something we’d grown accustomed to.
Now there is no news of that world;
No one to need us to ask after us.
So dark is our night that it matters not
If we have a window or have not;
The brook carries no reflection of us.