THE SEAGULLS OF ISTANBUL
They feel let down by the sea:
Some haven’t flown over blue waters
or tasted fish for years,
haven’t even seen waves break
and foam over rocks.
Their home is of concrete:
Beneath their wings, red-tiled roofs,
chimneys, satellite dishes, covered terraces,
people on balconies or in busy roads,
food waste, plastic bags, dustbins.
At night they give voice to their hurt:
As though trying to reach their lost seas,
their longing turns into a rage that stuns,
their bitter screams tear through the dark
and mingle with bitter human ones.
