It is strange that a person often leaves his peace and happiness in the palm of another person and then spends his life looking for it like glasses he has forgotten on his nose.
He endures all kinds of ordeals, endures pain, becomes companions in grief, and exalts himself by attributing holiness to all these.
He is a dervish who endures suffering for holy goals, because in his essence. He looks for wisdom in every disloyalty he witnesses and a fault in every betrayal he encounters.
But he knows like honey; There is neither wisdom in disloyalty, nor fault in oneself.
They feed on pain, they take a strange flavor from grief. He hits his forehead to the nights and takes refuge in the orphan syllables as a balm.
D/ins are like water, they can't explain what they're going through. His heart was grieved once. That's exactly why it's good with pencils.
They watch the traveler, not the road. They miss the homeland, not the homeland. There are wounds that bleed or do not heal at all. They can neither forget nor hold on.
They desire to suffer for visal, not to vuslat, and even to spend a lifetime for that cause. Their desire is their lack of purpose. In the middle of the angry desert, they walk with love, ecstasy and rush as if they are going to catch up, just like Kays, who is walking around on the sofa with Leyla's love, but they can't go a long way.
Because the beginning and the end of that road are one. He who stands at the beginning has seen the end, it is the beginning that reaches the end. And in fact, people are old enough to step off that stage at any moment.
They walk around with a smile mask. Even though their hearts weep, “Smile is charity.” those who say they have obeyed his command.
Thirteen years later;
From months to December,
You in my mailbox.
You surrendered to my love
This time it was your turn to speak.
I couldn't imagine waiting for you like this,
There's nothing between us
You just wrote that there is mutual affection.
Well, you wrote,
thinking of me
your fingers on the keyboard,
In the reckoning of the years,
Putting aside their losses and gains,
For the first time, you gave love, me, us a chance.
Then,
The next is poison of love.
I sipped your letters,
The joy of the morning birds is in me,
He loves me too!
Did you really hide my poems all these years?
I believed in you in those days,
Now I don't know.
I didn't know you, ma'am.
You were as much as I had in my head,
Sometimes I thought you were crazy
Sometimes the presumption of innocence
I loved you mercifully because you were an orphan...
I was wondering about your mother,
For what kind of night she gave birth to you,
Then;
Where did your refugee beauty come from?
Look, I don't know you at all,
But I love with a deep passion.
Ours is a little love story,
Actually, I should say mine.
You were never in this love.
As a child I know I don't love you
Maybe he doesn't even have the plague.
But it's bleeding;
The wound on my bandage.
God damn me
I am still waiting for you,
I love you.
For some it is futile labor, for others it is a blessed wish.
They say, "It was not good for Jesus, nor for Moses". They do not know that; their will is only the consent of the Right.
In short, it is difficult to understand people, my dear.
If you catch a bird with your mouth, you will not be hurt; They don't like their gender.
They say if you walk on the sea, it can't swim.
You become a life and lie down at their feet, they chew through and they don't look back.
Therefore, if you want to be happy, you should definitely know that the only way to be happy is to make yourself happy.
In fact, the world is a huge stage, and what we call life consists of a divine scenario. People play what is written for them and when the time comes, they get off that stage.
What a futile effort to care about who is applauding how much.
Hey, lie world, I'm tired of you.
No one should be angry, I wrote myself.
