Lentil Soup & Lemon

Speak of silver peaks in Artvin’s embrace,
Of homeland ridges and untamed grace.
Share tales of arduous climbs to school,
Of frostbitten mornings, stubborn yet cool.

You spent your meagre wages on books,
A sacrifice etched in your loving looks.
You pronounced with fervour, cultured, inspired,
Dreamed my future brighter than you aspired.

For in Istanbul, you gave me lentil soup and lemon,
And a memory of you.

But buried beneath, a murky truth lay still,
A secret of years, a wound to fill.
You cast us aside, a shadowed retreat,
Left mother trapped in silence, discreet.

Should I mourn your sorrow, your wretched plight?
Or the fabricated aunt in a child’s sight?
Open to trust, blind to the lies,
Faith saw kindness where truth defies.

For in Istanbul, you gave me lentil soup and lemon,
And a memory of you.

Speak now of your dim, evasive air,
The hurried steps, the fleeting care.
Let it be regret, let it be shame,
Not just indifference that played this game.

You overpromised, extended hope’s chain,
But meaningless dreams brought only pain.
Kindness in hope turns fragile and bare,
When built on foundations that crumble and wear.

Still, in Istanbul, you gave me lentil soup and lemon,
And a memory of you.

I tried to mend the heart you wore,
Hoped for a father I could adore.
But hearts aren’t just muscle, they’re soul, they’re art,
A performer’s longing, not a bureaucrat’s chart.

Today, they remember; I remember, too:
Not you, but the love we outgrew.
A tear not for you but for what was lost,
A life squandered, a bitter cost.

For in Istanbul, you gave me lentil soup and lemon,
And a memory of you.

Now, it is a taste I sip with cautious tongue,
A flavour sour, where sweetness long ago clung.