STAIN Poem by Gülten Akin

At the knottiest point of our age we stood
let someone write us, for if we don't
who will
the quieter it stayed, the blunter grew
the fine knife we used to hack out the rough day

where are they: the miracle that gleams
and the magic that glimmers at every stir

another day gone unseen
another day passed withering the grass

and so we learn it was blind, as if there were
no road and no passersby
and no one to record the passersby
they said
lock them up and put the key back in its old place

though really
it's a shameful thing, or so Camus says
to be happy on your own
voices and other voices, where are the world's voices

so quietly
the stain has seeped into the fabric