Every street sighs the same tired syllable,
like a bell rung only in one tone.
In the tram, in the shop, on the radio —
“Turkish” spills from mouths as if
the dictionary had only one page.
It sticks to the air,
like damp laundry that never dries,
weighing down every conversation.
Not a name, not a nation,
just a looped whisper the walls repeat.
And I walk through it,
uninvited, unclaimed,
wondering if they even know
how small their world must be
to fit only one word inside.