Machine Poem by Leila CANKAYA

One people can love a machine?
I did.

Gears, they have, rhythmic moves, dark brown colour,
It gives the papers to press
Ever same moves, carefree.

One guy nearby, such standing,
Makes it control with his hand.
Machine is working, honestly, nonstop.
It was a press machine.
I watched it, with, wondered eyes,
witched me that spectre.
In the dark evening, near the shop
It is working like a carefree snob.


I was watching but in other hand
my eyes looking around, worried;
People, who sees me can think about me, crazy
Finally, l went away.

Like eternal rhythmic voices...
Can it turn a people, can be a miracle?
If l love it, enough level?

I was going there almost every day.
More and more, l tied it
My spirit slowly turned to the machine.

One day, in the dusk, one guy in park...
He was watching me, with evil looks
I went away inside a pain.
Can it turn a people?
If l give it my soul...

Many days l didn't go there, l could not.
But, machine still in my brain.
Finally, l decided to see it again.

Around of atelier, there was a large building land,
Trashes, stuffs, that doesn't work any more.
My God, there, machine! No way no!
Such silent, static.
Somebody had broken it or
Naturally itself was broken,
l don't know,
then, l understood that
I was a miserable romantic.
But that's real that, it never says lie.

As if for a moment, l saw a movement.
Over it, a few drops, does it cry?
My God, can l bring it back
With my pray?

After a few minutes rain got speed,
Hopeless, l left it.