This city, leaning its shoulder against yellow stones,
Mardin waits while gazing at the horizon.
Every evening, as the sun descends
Upon the Mesopotamian plain,
An ancient hymn touches hearts,
The breeze of a centuries-old, unhushed voice
Drifting through the stone streets.
A city where stones speak,
Where doors pray,
Rising toward the sky from stone stairways…
On distant hills,
Standing in the heart of solitude and silence,
Mor Gabriel—
The letters carried by the wind unite in Aramaic,
Still echoing on its walls as far as you can feel…
Once upon a time,
There were children's voices in the courtyards,
'The scent of bread mingling with the sound of bells, '
With morning prayers upon the olive branches…
Then, weary of the years, the roads grew long,
'Lives were squeezed into suitcases, '
The sound of a child's scream caught in the zippers,
Doors were locked,
Keys grew heavy in pockets,
As a people walked toward distant lands;
Those melodies, pulled by hand through stone streets,
Vanished in the rattling wheels of suitcases…
Yet the stones do not forget,
A mother,
In a foreign city,
Sings a lullaby to her child in her tongue once more:
'Moriyo… Moriyo…'
And perhaps that child does not know,
But that lullaby comes from the mountains of Tur Abdin,
From the shadow of ancient monasteries,
For 'exile is distant, but memory is near.'
And one day,
The wind turns back toward Mesopotamia,
Passing through stone streets, finding peace in empty courtyards;
Then you shall hear
The voice waited for with patience from the heart of the city:
'Language does not vanish, faith does not extinguish.'
'The stone endures, time waits.'
And hearts beat with the prayer of an ancient people,
Still rising to the heavens
From its yellow-stoned hills,
'The sacred temple of stones washed by the tears of the sky.'
From Mardin, 'Moriyo… Moriyo…'
Ekrem KAZAN / M. Sc. Architect / 2026
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem