Shelf

Odds and ends lie around,
Like a museum, the storeroom.
Leftover wood, clothes and boxes,
Buttons, string, rusty nails.

On the shelf of my storeroom,
With its shabby lining,
I see boxes,
So many boxes.

Inside them, people,
Trash, dust and grime.
Storeroom,
Portray you, no poem can.

Behçet Necatigil (1916-1979). Raf. Translated from the Turkish.

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