North
Cyprus through Synesthesia
Have
you ever had the chance to be in a place
That smells of freshly boiled corn?
That is fired by the tranquil flame of dawn?
That sounds like the fussy waves of the sea?
And has thirty hues of the color green?
It has the fragrance of Turkish coffee
And the aroma of jasmine
It sounds like dice jingling on the stage of backgammon.
And the mullah’s prayer from the minaret—azan,
It smells like the soil and grass after a rare rain
It sounds like a scrap of a Cypriot’s greeting, “Napan?”
And a thousand cicadas crunching underfoot
"Besiktas" Photograph
by Joshua Parker
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