For Ayla
A Tatar cavalier, a renegade from Golden Horde,
Is galloping through a small farm, near Budapest.
With a melody on her lips, a young woman emerges from her shack.
The Tatar cavalier barely notices her, his eyes are fixed on the horizon.
The men of all villages determined to teach him a lesson,
Are running after him armed with scythes and hoes.
The Tatar cavalier turns around and throws a look.
A sharp pain slides through his chest.
Images are hovering in front of my eyes, as I listen
To Hungarian musicians in a World Music concert:
A scarf full of spring lilies, a baggy shirt welcoming
An unexpected wind, a flowery skirt fluttering playfully in the air.
And this song:
This
song is the song for my horse's walk.
This
walk is the walk to all sorts of love.
This
love is the love for the beauties of the world.
This world is the world of the Compassionate God.
A shiver permeates the Tatar cavalier's spine
As he turns around to look at the young woman
Now in front of her shack. The sharp pain
Traversing his chest sparks a
flame
That puts a fire in my heart six centuries later
When for the first time, I see my wife.
Adnan Adam Onart
Somerville
MA, 1996 - 2000