“Cilicia, They Say”
Cilicia, they say, is ancient land,
Of sea-salt winds and olive sand.
Where kings once knelt and prophets spoke,
Now rises smoke from meat and joke.
Adana burns with peppered pride,
Where grills and trucks in traffic bide.
The voices loud, the coffee thick,
Each hour pulsing, rough and quick.
But ask who lived here long ago —
The whispers falter, answers slow.
Hittite echoes, Armenian stone,
Assyrian prayers now overgrown.
And yet, today the street replies:
“Just Adana Turks,” with narrowed eyes.
Too many? Maybe. Who can tell?
The past is gone. They roast it well.
So Cilicia sings a louder song,
Where many came — but few belong.
The ground remembers what men forget.
The grill keeps burning. The soil stays wet.