In Istanbul my ears
three mornings heard the early call to prayer.
At fuller light, heard birds then,
waterbirds and tree birds, birds of migration.
Like three knowledges,
I heard them: incomprehension,
sweetened distance longing.
When the body dies, where will they go,
these migrant birds and prayer calls,
as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer?
With voices of the ones I loved,
great loves and small loves, train wheels,
crickets, clock-ticks, thunder-where will they,
when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave?
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