Root Landscape

“Everything is tinged with a faint perhaps.
The death that stands between me and my intoxication…”
— Walter Benjamin


The island a bird in the wind, the horse a fish in the storm, and the harbor
becomes a pole in a wink. Sunflowers look at the moon so indeed. Oh,
the winter running to the century, in which the images sober, with the chopper
at his hand! It is vain to dive not to die. Skunks smell also when they are happy.
In a poor soul whose shelter is the words, the secretive sun goes down sighingly.



Suat Kemal Angı, “My-Burial”