Zimbra Incoming Configuration

On the threshold of the cloudy night, when the first cold autumn caresses, dripping I speak on the life of Gaziantep, dark matter that she wiggles out there. Lurking in the clearing of failure, my roof is a window on the unspoken desire to fly. Also fly away, no matter who is away. I feel, are hunted. I invades' Hüzün, already swelled in hurried steps back from the bazaar. Now, here at home, the glass fogs up my loneliness, blurs the outlines of things, they stay silent. L 'Hüzün. Restless soul looking for something missing. It 'like a hand in the dark melancholy that stretches to embrace love, and looks even touches only darkness. Do you happen perhaps when you're sitting on a wet bench, surrounded by trees that seem indifferent more than welcoming, and you look at the shoes, the tips of your shoes, wondering if you can ever make in a place that is worthwhile, or just to ' yet another bench. The old that forwards with skill between the toes of small beads are well aware of the 'Hüzün, it is life when it mixes with thoughts on life, as water is added to the raki, a clear liquor, and together they become as white as milk turbid. It 's a suspended condition, that pertains to the individual but floats in the air. Hovers in one place, on a portion of humanity, and penetrates through the cracks in each of his distraction.



writer Orhan Pamuk has recognized this feeling in the streets and in the history of Istanbul, his hometown, coming to identify with it the spirit of its people without them knowing what moves them, it nurtures dreams and direct its actions. But in Istanbul, the night can make you forget even your name, leads to madness in a trail of emotions. It is no longer the foggy city of his childhood, where it could happen to cross the Galata bridge desert. It is now a megalopolis get enough electricity to be confusing her with everything that passes through it. L 'Hüzün has not abandoned, just more lies hidden in wooden houses still standing, with blackened walls and windows closed, or in the streets of Fatih at sunset, while the azan call to prayer and the men slowly slip off your shoes before entering the mosque. In Istanbul, a club with no sign stuck in the attic of art nouveau buildings, there are single men, lost in clouds of gray smoke, with glasses of which never see the bottom. They explore the approach of day deciphering the fragments of the Ottoman Empire crumbled, far from the economic achievements of modern Turkey, away from discussions on entry into Europe, opening away from democratic reforms. What remains of the past? On old jackets torn settles the dust of history without meaning, and do not know who we are or where we are going. But we want to be. And here we measure the size, active insatiable desire, which connotes' Hüzün, a closed door behind him, in a heavy coat, and away into the night and his best offer. The clouds thinned out, sooner or later. In the meantime, he asks a woman to open the clenched fists, and forget the wrongs, the war has left scars even in the words and you prefer the silence, indulging in a tender embrace. That light will go out alone, and will bring the shadows.



Here is distant Istanbul. Here the space without stealing the life expectancy, and each village does not know his neighbor. We could hide forever in these mountains and hills, in caves in paleolithic forgotten valley. The city is an oasis of concrete, tall buildings speak for themselves of modernity, while unbeknownst to them are endless suburbs. Surrounding roads, and donkeys. Sidecar crammed with ramshackle wood trot to the farmers' houses, where electricity was immediate. And the uncertain fate collect bus humanity huddled on the sidewalks. I was also there, among them confused citizen Gaziantep, a stranger with my face every day that change imperceptibly. Clutching the keys in the pockets I got on the first bus out of town towards the mahalla, the neighborhood of the "new arrivals", the crowd of refugees from the east. Living on the streets, along the doors, lactating women in the doorways. They have tattoos mysterious marks on the forehead and hands, wrecks graphs of Islamic land, pay, tied to magical practices to ensure health and happiness. They look at me go without asking who they are, they teach children who do not represent a danger. And everything is far from here, while a Kurdish girl likes to insult me \u200b\u200bwith furious eyes and a grotesque smile. I eat my doner tavuk breathless at a table in the corner. Ataturk yellowed looked at me sternly, and two old staring into space waiting for the cold Çay is served by a boy. There is elegance even in poverty, if you care to keep the needs of the highest, most sacred of inner purity. Not like those philistines who go about to convert, to organize a revival of radical and false images of "good Muslim" who would see only veiled women and men in long coats, while I laugh to imagine the men and veiled women mistress.



The slowness of the baker in the house is my peace of mind for two Turkish lira. I often stop to talk, to improve my turkish, and in the meantime there's always a warm freshly baked borek, which gives me a stramacchio Ali. With cheese and olives for breakfast, with Today's Zaman and the cigarettes under his arm put aside, I return home. I think Turkish verses of poets in this city meetings only in the cafes closed. I mark time, climb the stairs with me to the attic where they return to dance, to reveal, finally, brutal whispers of those who saw the making and unmaking of the world.

Sesler

Gecenin Evin bir zaman gelince
Kilitte duyuyorsan anahtarın Sesini
ANLAI ki yalnızsın

Elektrik düğmesini çevirince
Cited diye bir ses duyuyorsan
Anla ki yalnızsın

Yatağına yatınca
Yüreğinin sesinden uyuyamıyorsan
Anla ki yalnızsın

Odanda kâğıtlarını kitaplarını
Duyuyorsan zamanın kemirdiğini
Anla ki yalnızsın

Bir ses geçmişlerden
Çağırıyorsa eski günlere
Anla ki yalnızsın

Değerini bilmeden yalnızlığının
Kurtulmak istiyorsan
Kurtulsan da yapayalnızsın

Suoni

Se senti il suono della chiave nella serratura
when you come home at night
you know that you are alone.

If you feel a slight crunch
when you press the light switch
you know that you are alone.

If the beating of your heart will not let you sleep when you go to bed

you know that you are alone.

If you feel the time gnawing
books and papers in your room
you know that you are alone.

If a voice from the past
you back to your old days
you know that you are alone.

If you want to escape from loneliness

not appreciate it then you're really alone, even if you can escape.

-Aziz Nesin-