Butterflies Hidden in Your Black Hair

I am weighing my dreams, of course, the facts are slow, of course, I live in slow motion and I am getting smaller day by day, My Dear is now the content of my day and my soul.

Of course, it is not enough that I hide in my soul:

Oh, and of course, aren't there those mikado trashes, stick men and women, the ghosts that suffer from the colors of the carpet I make, my dear.

Where did you forget your veil?

You don't pout out of the blue, either.

Ah, what do you think you are, don't I know?

Did you tie your daughter's head? It's been a long time though.

You know, the years I worked in the classroom.

The happiness that I console myself with the ironlessness of my soul and defend it with all my traces.

I was happy in those years, of course I was with you, my lover and all my teacher friends.

I was happy, my darling.

You have a lot of rights, but I betrayed you and put an end to my profession, after you, after the private teaching institution went bankrupt, the other private institutions I worked for did not give me the pleasure here.

I will understand how much I loved you, darling and how authoritative you were with your deep voice, you were the sweetest toughest in the world, dear.

My first day in the classroom was almost a feast, after all, it was chirpy, and of course, both myself and dozens of my students could not come to my next lesson. I had a cold that day and you made the phone ring when I couldn't even raise my head.

Me, who couldn't make it to class on time and on time: you know how you were upset that I got sick after your anger at me, and you gave me a chance that day.

"If it was someone else, I wouldn't even have a day in the classroom who did this. Anyway, get well and you will definitely come to your lesson tomorrow.”

I was neither the first nor the last person you tolerated.

My words are sweating, dear and I have been looking for you so much.

I didn't have an address, nor your phone number, and I don't want to have it.

Or have you passed away too, darling?

But there was still time, and I think it's time for people's vengeance, all that happened and lived through today.

Who is left from yesterday?

While I was hidden in my world and remembering you and all that I lost with longing and sadness.

I break my silence by loving and writing, you were the first to save me from the defeat I caused myself.

Everyone, or rather all teachers, should have a principal like you.

You were so thin.

You used to cut me off while I was rushing in and out of the classes, how you would smile.

“There is no room for fuss. Relax relax.''

You know, I'm still in a panic, even more panic than those days.

I don't have a picture of you, nor an address where I can reach you.

I wonder if my students remember me as well as I remember you and all my teachers?

You were the doyen of your principals, teachers and you disappeared like all good and special people.

Butterflies hidden in your black hair and black coffee that you do not neglect to drink every breath.

You're still the age I left off, darling I'm your age, which means we're the same age.

Am I crying right?

Do not doubt and you are one of the people I do not doubt.

You know where to find me so I have peace of mind.

It is possible that we will not meet again in this world, your place is ready with me and please come with me with your textbooks, it will be clear that we will build a school or classroom again from the Bridge in heaven, while of course we were a traveler to hell and not burned.

Trust God, darling!

Black and the Nomad - Poetry

Ground poetry casting house,

I say directly without using fillers,

I love you.

Like the civics I keep inside my disabled limbs,

I immigrated from all the places where I had compatibility problems.

Except for you, you're my shameless ground,

You're the part of me that gets pruned.

And let's link a little bit on the slope of love,

I write poetry, I'm not one of you

and moreover, I understand from burial works,

The last time I witnessed the grounding of a deceased.

I did not tell you in the main world,

The next is confession and faith, ink and spirit.

Concentration camp heart, refugee gaze,

I'm falling on paper like a wound trainer.

Hear all of you, people!

I'm not the boy who throws stones at the seagulls,

It's not me who paints the sea blue.

I cried a lot in a time past my overdose, while waiting for a rumored good news from myself.

Because you didn't come

I'm rebellious and blue.

Then I secretly began to wander in the gardens of love,

there was a fluid pleasure in his pupils.

It's really important,

Finding the astrolabe

The invention of the printing press

And the calligraphers' revolt.

I forgot my part on the way,

Maybe I'm a staff.

Seriously wounded.