Salty Water in My Canteen

SALTY WATER IN MY CANTEEN West Indies, Red Apple, Ithaca, South China! I am sentenced to a long journey. I have no share in the territories of whites. I have committed a crime against the land of the locals. A mischief among despots, an outsider among tribes, being a savage cuts me off from the languid fruits. For myself in this world, I chose the bitter taste of a root. There is no shade nearby to rest. I am sentenced to a long journey. What is far? For a man like me, who lives far from his own self— how far could the destination be? My head is uncovered, my hair parted at the middle. Whatever country I pass through, the tattoos on my temples will betray me. They will call me brave and honorable, but I am silent and sad. The cascading yell I learned from the pirates no longer does me any good. I am disgusted by the confident, settled dialects of peasants. Around my neck, jewelry made from the embarrassments of those who declared me guilty. On my back, the deaf scale of clandestine words. I have added salt to the water in my canteen; I carry no food. I am sentenced to a long journey. I am leaving a life—a life tailored for me. Those who saw me used to say, “It looks good on you.” The pocket mirror I bought during my military service, certain nights I went out, the frivolous smile on my face when I wore my knuckleduster, and other such indulgences—all left behind. The order is given by the judges. I have signed the document that allows me to carry no smell, no echo, no color. My work here is finished. I no longer have a home. I am sentenced to a long journey. İsmet Özel / Translated from Turkish by Ali Rıza Arıcan, April 1st 2013