Lamps are lit in the courtyard in time-worn vessels,
made of clay, a little crooked, a little tired
The scent of oil lingers in the air,
warmth spreading across the cheeks,
and in the smoke
slowly faces begin to take shape
in which the past still breathes
The first lamp in the name of my father.
The flame trembles,
but it doesn't go out
as if the shadow of an invisible hand
still lingers on it
His voice still comes—
"Walk slowly, don't burn your hands..."
And I think,
My hands don't burn anymore,
but my heart melts a little more each time
The second lamp dedicated to my mother!
It smells of turmeric, basil,
and the faint melody of an old chant
which still plays like music to silence in the corners of the room
The third lamp
in the names of friends
who walked together
on the trails of memories,
whose words now fall like leaves
every autumn,
and yet give the earth a new greenness
The fourth lamp for those dreams
that remained unfulfilled,
that never found time to be expressed,
but which are still etched in the heart
like the sky seen through a closed window
