Twenty-six years you’ve been waiting at the bottom of your dark well, writing poems that shine like stars. In February 2020 we sat in London, listening to your words, watching a film about you. People read tributes, your cousin sang. Your friend Erkut performed an incantation, draped in a sheet, like a strange bird. He lent us his wings, flew us 3000 kilometres to Silivri, Istanbul. I’ve never met you but that night I felt the distance shrink, as if I could stroke your cheek.