“The Agni Verses: Two Ambiguous Words in Mid-Flight” is a monolithic prose poem and an esoteric manifesto exploring the thin, blurred line between existence and non-existence. Originally woven into the final fabric of my Turkish novel, Children of the Full Moon, this standalone English text is a syncretic journey through ontological doubt, sacred passion, and the subversion of ancient myths. Here, Agni—the Vedic deity of fire—descends into a dark, stormy night not as a distant god, but as a twin-souled lover, a ruthless mirror, and a sovereign of ancient altars. Enter a realm where a Hadith is read in Hades, where realities become illusions, and where two unknown words remain eternally suspended in mid-flight.
By: Hashem Khosroshahi (Haşim Hüsrevşahi)
- What a blessed abomination it was! She, who is the daughter of the moon goddess! The wind had brought the whisper of yellow wheat to your hair! Your hands, newly returned from hell, had finally touched the soil; they were to bring fertility to the earth, to my face, and to this city, which had memorized the resonance of your footsteps patiently telling that ancient tale… Ah, my eternal holy whore, with whom I made love hundreds of times, for whose icon I lit candles, by the poison of whose tongue I went mad, and upon whose altar I was sacrificed every sunset when the fear of death plundered your breast! The moisture of your lips seeps into my lifespan… Your sweat, the water of life flowing from between your thighs, washes away my sins. The scent of wild thyme on your skin, like barbarian hordes, tramples my soul beneath its hooves. Now the moon, your mother, sits by the window, gazing at us and at this orphaned city! That moon-woman, whom you named Simla in your own lore, now wanders these streets. Now she sits within the shadows of this bright night, listening to the voices of the fishermen who sailed out to sea and the musicians. And those young girls, those boys dancing in colorful skirts under the moon’s tambourine, they are singing your songs… One side of you is Sadri Alışık, the other is Borges! Ah, my Al Yazmalim, until eternity!
- As I wander inside you, your hand leaves its tenderness upon my hair. I, who believed in you, will now sacrifice to you my poem, whose soul I distilled in blind wells. My first voice, my first poem… Listen now! At the end of this voice, you may drink my blood. For I have bled my blood into this poem of mine. Before the blind gaze and decayed flesh of Simla, I slit the throat of my first poem, my firstborn child. Now rub your wings against my blood and hear it for the very first time! When I was still a child, two cruel hands ripped the wings right from my shoulders.
- The soil of your shoulders is bitter. A mere touch of the tongue would burn. Inanna had told you that you could fly. Your wings will bloom with every single tear. Black tears and blue… She would journey into the underworlds by night. That is why the rivers of pain flow within your palms. Rub your newly blooming wings against my eyes. Rest your head upon my chest when night falls. On that first night, looking at your stars, I suck your fingers… You laugh… “I did not take you as a slave, my love!” We were born on a Sunday morning in Ankara. We got up and walked down together to buy bread.
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