Pilgrim

By Mevlut Ceylan 

How many galaxies stretch

between these petals and these pilgrim eyes

yet distance can enhance the shrine of an absence

Here all colours live in ghettos

servants and acolytes of dankest altars

We are only prolific in ignorance

our every move smells of dead‑ends

We are all short‑listed

in the heart of the headsman

But surely we can think

of better ways

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