Dreaming of the Cyclamens

by

Füsun Atalay ~ Copyright©

The city has become a ghost town

lined by houses with icicle beards.

A million diamonds flash in the

headlights of a solitary car.

Tires trapped in a treadmill

spin on ice-embedded roads

in the bone-naked chill

A candle flickers on a windowsill . . .

a remote sign of life — a fragile breath

suspended in the balance of a wick.

Streets have become ice tunnels

as branches surrender to their fate

with a heartbreaking bow

of ice-imprisoned limbs.

A sadness permeates this place,
a muteness floods my ears
and muffles the laughter of the past —
When trees stood tall

and

their branches were alive

we dreamt of softly awakening

to a velvet, chartreuse spring.

The wounds are deep;

and the gashes weep

for the child — untimely torn

from its mother's womb.

To the Ice Storm of 1998

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 1998 All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay