Oh mighty walls of Constantinople, like bread, guarded by the Marmara lake, like a sea of cream, layer upon layer of defense, like an onion red, shield and spear, like mushroom, chanterelle, oh redeem, the Norman warrior from castle garden with cauliflower trees, parsil, rivers of broth, oh heart of war and peace.
Earth is like a pizza, is it not? Or is it like a tomato, round? Are the planets scattered randomly like grated cheese, or what? Behold the sky, oh humans, what can be found?
As they descended from the misty hills, bearded thunder gods with skin white like dough, blood like tomato sauce, the power of mozzarella, onion and banana.
Coffee is my immortal life, black like the eye, black like the eye, hazelnut suryp is my wife, sweet and shy, sweet and shy.
The cradle of civilization, fair Greece, your yoghurt, tomatoes, each tasty little piece, you rose against the Ottomans in Peloponnese, with cucumber, garlic and feta cheese.
The sparkling flames of Muspelheim, oh rose hip soup so red, the chilling cold of Nifelheim, oh vanilla ice cream, the Völva’s dream, the creation of Ymer’s bed.
Long before the baguette, but not before the mozzarella, there was the soldier and his bayonet, and the dream of Italia Bella.
On a land born from the ancient yoghurt of Hellas, granola made by grain, from the fields of Ukraine, who, on a less archaic site, with less poetic bite, could have been named “our fellas”.
On distant spagetti-clad earth,
the autumns of bell pepper yellow and red,
the many winters of crème fraîche that once lay ahead,
the springs of cucumber and rebirth.
Three kings rest in this church,
each in royal tombs of soft bread,
underneath spinace birch,
cucumber green and tomato red.