From the mosque the muezzin calls
through speakers on minarets,
sounds that weave down every alley,
that find me where I lie
and lure me toward another prayer.
I stay in a slum, don’t bat an eye
when people cry at the door.
I can’t close it on those
who wonder why I’m here at all.
I follow directions when they’re given
in language I don’t understand.
I watch the Turks as they converse,
watch their hands weave the air,
how they tell their stories here.
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