I am but a mere cobblestone

In the heart of magnificent Istanbul,

Perched atop one of the seven hills,

In a quiet neighborhood,

Unseen, unknown—yet I have witnessed much.

I’ve felt the clip-clop of Arabian hooves,

The noble Ottoman phaetons passing by,

As they made their way to family on the Asian shore.

I’ve heard the gallop of secret horses,

Noblemen rushing through the night—

Some in pursuit of forbidden love,

Others plotting to overthrow the British and French invaders.

Yet, rarely have I felt the weight

Of the occupiers’ boots or their horses’ tread.

You cannot know the soul of a cobblestone,

But I am kin to the stones of Medina,

Who once spoke to the Prophet—

Peace and blessings be upon him.

Though I have never spoken,

Every grain of sand within me

Sings the praises of the Creator.

I make the path swift for the Believer,

Rushing to dawn prayers.

But to the arrogant,

I sometimes offer a stumble,

A lesson in humility.

I cannot help the fragile woman from Pakistan,

Who climbs this hill and has come to learn,

But I echo her landlord’s words:

“You can do it,” he smiles,

And I know, in my heart of stone,

He is one of Istanbul’s chivalrous.

Some of my brethren have become stairs,

For humans to tread upon,

While I remain a street—

Once for horses, now for cars and cats.

I converse with the cats,

Forbidding them to soil me.

Still, I must wait for the rain and sun

To cleanse me when they disobey.

But recently, I’ve heard troubling news.

Machines have torn up my brethren

In a neighborhood not far from here—

Replaced by ugly cement.

Where have they gone?

I do not know.

I cannot move,

But I feel, I hear,

I speak only to the cats and birds.

So, if you walk these steep, cobbled streets of Istanbul,

And curse their incline,

Know that I have been here longer than you,

And many like you have come and gone.

They all survived the climb

By the grace of God—

And so will you.

This post is dedicated with gratitude to Cemre. Photo credits of antique photos go to him