Little girls run fast in Fatih — little boys even faster
Running and shouting Arabic fluently
Language of existence of the days

Their uncles sell fake honey and authentic daphne soaps
I also have tasted some of the best tea here
In tiny glass cups, brought by courteous men

I watch old men quietly beg for little change
Never losing their dignity somehow

I get lost daily in these streets
Following walls with faded colors and endless patterns
Never seeing anything twice
Letting infinite nights dissolve into slow sunrises