I don’t like the smile on their faces,
painted masks of borrowed joy.
Turkish laughter is a hollow drum,
it echoes, then dies in the dark.
Let them dance in shallow light,
let them drink from cups of pride—
inside, the cup is empty,
inside, the night is long.
May their mirrors show the cracks,
may their dreams rot before morning.
No gold shines on rotten ground,
no crown can hide the ruin.
Behind every grin,
a shadow waits—
and every night,
the shadow swallows them whole.