Poem of a Turk

[Versus]

Turkish moon, crescent Moon, pale like my face,
do you know that you inspire a strong, and also wounded race?

Below thee
here lies — Turkey:
like a wounded man
who ran
to the crescent Moon
and its pensive gloom.

A white crescent Moon is my Heaven, and also my hell:
deep is a wound of the heart: the deepest well.

High up in the sky,
or below on the banner,
the moonlight you cry,
quietly, in a modest manner:

when my time comes, there will be tears without uttered sound,
or the end of me will be a Moon that is round:
when the wolves howl
instead of growl:
even the wolves cry
for a casted die.

My crescent Moon is silent like a dream,
I am attracted by its dreamy gleam,
like a moth flying into its Moon: a candle’s flame,
for life and death, love and hate, a glorious game.

[eploscik]

Very good, i enjoyed it. I especially liked the line, a white crescent Moon is my heaven, and also my well.

[Versus]

Glad you enjoyed it. That's why I write. Tastes differ though; but I like Your taste.

[rupertpupkin]

Fascinating poem. Well done on the spotlight!