Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
NOT a bird,
but the white clock of the city,
sketching life with a wing,
signing the seasons upon the air.
In a color that never ages,
with bright feathers
like a morning prayer
over the Bosphorus,
and a gentle heart
that knows how
to resist cruel cold
and lethal ice,
he plays—morning and evening—
Istanbul’s symphony
without a score,
without a conductor.
A seagull
with eyes that know the paths,
with a white voice
like a harbor’s laughter,
he soars without losing his way,
and lands
as if he knows
where the city places its heart.
He ascends the Sea of Marmara
as though it were his blue throne,
crosses the Bosphorus
as memory crosses
between two shores,
greeting rooftops,
trees…
and stones…
as if he governs the city,
ordering chaos
with a wing.
On the pages of Marmara’s water,
tourists flirt with him
using bread and nuts,
as one who feeds joy
from the palm of the hand.
In return,
the seagull offers a musical piece
of sound, flutter, and circling,
to which all creatures dance—
even the water
forgets its stillness.
From the dominance of his white hue,
winter’s ice takes the same color,
covering all of Istanbul,
proclaiming to the world
how peace may be,
and how harmony is born.
It seems
that Istanbul alone
is gifted with this seagull—
what secret
has the city hidden
in its waters,
its minarets,
and the pulse of its alleys?
O great Nile of Egypt,
if I were to call the seagull of Istanbul
out loud,
we trust that you receive his messages in secret,
morning and evening—
messages of love,
affection,
and mutual respect
between two nations
that were once
one.
Thus history swears,
and geography bears witness.
Seagull of Istanbul,
if you were to fly above Egypt,
you would confirm
that peace is not a visitor—
but one of her names.
