Four Stages

by Mehmet Kerem Türkcan

 

I.

 

Stout and stoic, the soldeirs charged through the hole.

“Welcome; we greet you!” the Jester spoke.

“A thousand blades fell a year ago today.

“My fater was one of them. As was my grandfather, and I was, myself.”

Stout and stoic, the soldeirs charged through the hole.

 

II.

 

The rose fell from the incarnadine throne.

Blood no longer flew through the veins of the old Commander.

“I’m happy here; life is getting smaller each day.

“And there is much more time to think, much more time to live.” He said.

The rose fell from the incarnadine throne.

 

III.

 

Above the banners stood the statue of the Fallen.

People looked at it, and they liked what they looked at.

“This is a mighty Dreamer, a Revolutionary and a God;

“There he stands for tyrants to butcher, for us to deify.” They said.

Above the banners stood the statue of the Fallen.

 

IV.

 

Many names there exist for the dead, but none for the living.

I have seen the temple as it was: pale, inert, tottering.

“Who am I, I ask still?” the Prophet had asked, his mind numb with wisdom.

“There are none to hear anymore.” I had answered, aware of the repercussion.

For many names there exist for the dead, but none for the living.