Houses

Serenity sometimes provokes, perhaps
that’s why people seek faraway places:
In order not to delve further into the dreams
of wistful women returning from
the market place or of tired map-makers in their
shrinking kingdoms. A back door opening onto
an endless flatness, onto a dusty road can always be found
a horse alert to the whistle. In fact every house
is a hidden puzzle enclosed within its own tale:
Who built it, which traditions it clung to,
it’s hard to remember all this now.
One can name a few architects, an equal number of
engineers and bricklayers. It, however, keeps opening
a bracket, watching you. You wake up and wrap
yourself in letters: For dreams should be written down
upon waking up.

Plovdiv, 1992

Translation: Suat Karantay