TURBE

Turbe

At the edge of an almost deserted village,
stands an old, weathered mosque,
and beneath it lies a graveyard,
within it, grave beside grave.

The shine of the finial is gone,
nor remains the beauty of the slender minaret,
while a faded green banner
seems to converse with the wind.

Before the mosque, upon a small hill,
a mausoleum seems to call the past.
I approached to read the name
of one who dreams of Paradise.

Beside the headstone, silence lingers;
upon it, a sword is carved,
a Damascus blade as witness
to times and ages long gone.

Moss has wrapped around
the beautiful turban on every side.
Beneath the inscription:
this is the grave
of a martyr, a hero, a captain.

Memories begin to whirl,
placing sorrow in my heart,
as I gaze upon the ancient mausoleum
and the headstone at its head.

And at the foot, a fallen stone,
long consumed by time,
mournfully it keeps its silence,
as when lips can speak no more.

Then I thought, dear God,
how bitter the passing ages become.
From the weeds, an ancient monument—
there is no one left to raise it.

Lost deep within my thoughts,
my forehead lightly damp with sweat,
I turned around, and there beside me
stood an old grandfather with a cane.

"Peace be upon you, son,"
said the old man,
with a voice full of longing,
and began a tale of long ago,
when he was still a child:

"Life once flourished here.
The village was wrapped in youth.
Every evening people went
to gatherings filled with song.

Life was full of hope,
and abundant blessings.
With time, it all slipped away,
and the village became nearly deserted."

"I rode a white horse,"
the old man sighed as he spoke,
"when I went to pray for Bayram
or to fairs and celebrations.

A light saddle rested on my horse,
the reins shone like golden shadows,
and my green dolama coat
was embroidered with pure gold.

Then I paused, if only for a moment,
as though giving rest to my soul."

He looked at the mausoleum and sighed:

"Yet now you see what life truly is.

Swords are in vain, and noble horses too,
even if gold flowed like a river.
Everything has its beginning and its end.
The same awaits us all.

You see all these graves.
Each one hides a story of its own.
Yet everything disappears in an instant,
when the funeral prayer is completed.

The young departed long ago
to seek happiness and salvation.
We remain waiting for our turn,
and this graveyard waits for us."

I listened to the old man without words,
thinking where we were
and where we might have been.
We raised our hands at the same moment
and recited Al-Fatiha.

Then the old man spoke again, wistfully:

"The old imam visits from time to time.
Everyone has more pressing matters,
or perhaps who truly knows.

Yet still, let us keep hope.
Our sorrow shall one day cease.
God willing, better days will come,
and Allah will look upon us with mercy."

Many summers have passed since then.
I do not know what became of the old man,
but I remember every word,
as if it were only yesterday