Face down in a manger, draped in a white sheet of shame Turkey cuddling its colors by three silver bullets in the activists head Hrant Dink sang his praise of Turkey and the land he loved Blending his Armenian heritage, a sliver of his ancestral pride.
He wrote polemics, reportages and op-ed pieces in Agos and tied Ballads to broken bonds beyond turpitude, beyond poisoned blood He signed his name to pleas of reason as best he could portend He believed all feuds could be mended, our agony surpassed by surprise attacks Status quo infracted, threats refracted, faced down, absolved.
Yet his manger is four cement blocks and police cordons forensically barraged Hrant Dink, victim of a Genocide renegotiated, restrapped with leather promises Tied to EU politics, Kurdish aspirations, US hegemony and Armenian avatars How much longer could he have survived, declared an enemy of the people Accused of insulting Turkishness, a “gyavour” infidel, unwanted, Louder than allowed, dark angel, face down in his own blood.
Nations built on myths of their sacred might, reduced to “seeyeset” diplomacy, the lying art Nations passing laws protecting their mythical image as liberators and beloved lords of the past Nations armed to the teeth, stripped of fixed identity beyond brutal stomps, hooved skull mounds Cruel, caustic, criminal caravans of obliterated primal ecstasy rejoicing in the blood of martyrs Hrant Dink lies in peace knowing he never bowed his head to the blood thirsty, the delusion, the mirage.