Chapter Twenty-One
The lamp wavers in the night, wavers.
A trembling track remains in the black, pitch black sea.
The mountain spreads, a ship that has taken its course in the night,
don’t name it, all this is me.
Is it pain or emptiness that ties the swing?
How can I know what measure of the heart is chosen?
What sort of a rustling is this sound, is this suffering?
Is a wave beating or a bird flying, or is it a mirage,
or the pebble telling the stars of its heavy soul?
It is not crying but just a gathering of sounds.
The lamp wavers in the long night, wavers.
A trembling track remains in the black, pitch black sea…
- Belgi
My journalist friend who told me this story added at the time that by pure coincidence they also travelled back from Teheran to Istanbul in the same plane
