Yon Side The Bosporus

by Martin Bemberg

You point to that branch above our café,
That light-wrapped arbor arm,
Some remnants of a Christmas passed,
Which I think you have only read about,
Perhaps seen on TV,
But whose carols you have, in truth, heard
From Thrace-invading missionaries.

And I think, as you map the lineage of your tongue,
Of the black beyond that limb to consider
That cliché your creed calls paradise.

Then having come to mistrust my elations
My soul makes like a skeptic and turns to run.
That this night just might be the oasis, probably I could not deny,
Though not for lack of trying to make its ringings less than true

And I think, now that we have gone this night our separate ways:
"You remind me of everything that is beautiful
And everything that is beautiful reminds me of you,"

Some words I should have told you then
And not in tears as you are leaving to meet your brother,
Who will never know of me, I reckon, back home yon side the Bosporus.