The smell of concrete

Warmth has a smell.


Landscapes of concrete

in summer they smell

below the rain like steam

and wanderlust, yolculuk nereye?


Grey wetness is scentless.


Some people use

strange words like

“paradise, exotic island,

south and heaven on earth”.


They exclude “humidity”.


However, the term “home of choice”

is an oxymoron,

homes are not chosen,

they are achieved.


Smells awake memories.


When I say

I’m looking for home

it does not mean

That I can choose.


Memories are restorative.


Concrete in Gurbet makes sick,

annelerimiz babalarımız hasta,

heimwehkrank, homesick,

is all this written correctly?


Gurbet is an emotional condition.


Kids don’t understand anything

and neither do grown ups,

some are carelessly happy,

some are causelessly different.


German sounds Teutonic.


I am anything but

an unhappy person

so I spare myself the

change of perspective.


Turkish sounds like Turkish.


At a trot they walk

through puddles

giving the steaming concrete

the cold shoulder.


Memories are nostalgic.


When I say

I think of home

I dig up the memories

of my childhood.


My grand aunt strides

from the safe roof

towards the cloudburst,

water pearls from her clothes,

the thin white headscarf,

the darf red cardigan,

the wide light pants,

her heart in the right place.


She streches her hands into the sky,

drops fall on her praying fingers,

her nails are shining red from henna.


I don’t remember exactly

what blended into the rain first,

silent hot tears or the smell

of Buğday, wood and roses.


Smells and memories are home.


Cansev Duru

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