By Dr. Ednan Bozan 

I shall write my final poem...
not in ink,
but with the wounds of my soul
and the blood of my heart...
And I shall carve it upon the face of life,
so it will not forget
that I once passed through here,
burdened... yet I did not bow.

I shall write of those
who departed...
leaving their chairs behind,
gazing upon the Euphrates,
as though they were still waiting for them.
And of those doors
that, whenever the evening wind stirs them,
deceive my heart
into believing
that one of the departed has returned.

And in the sanctuary of my longing...
the tears of night once closed in around us,
until they departed...
and absence within us
widened to the very edge of loneliness.
And old laughter...
whenever it passes through my memories,
silence weeps in the room.

O you, present yet absent...
I ask for no miracle:
that departure should pass
through the eye of hope,
or that the moaning of the soul
should escape the confines of longing...

I only wish
for my longing to pass through
the heart of my weariness,
and for one heart to remain
for me to love,
without having to learn upon its grave
how the one left behind goes on living.

But you always came...
with a suitcase of absence in your hand;
you took the face and left its image,
took the voice and left its echo,
and took the one I love...
leaving me only their memory,
so that the pain might be complete.

Now take whatever you wish...

In the pockets of my soul,
nothing remains
but the keys to houses that no longer exist,
names that make the night tremble
whenever I utter them,
and an old heart
that every evening
sets a chair for the absent.

Nothing else remains.

As for me...
when the day of departure comes,
I shall go,
and at your door
I shall leave my final poem...

Not as a witness to my death,
but as a small wound
upon your face,
so that the days yet to come
may know:

there once was a man
who loved life deeply...
but life
never learned
how to love him.