Carrying my pre-apocalyptic body to death with the atlas quilt

Bury me in my dreams: as long as you ignore the joy that I have postponed, and while waiting at a relative stop, console me while waiting for the end, in the sad and old course of the fattening sadness, without minding the appearance of the brick-colored clouds.

I'm in the most memorable tone of the sky, know that all the meals I skipped while enjoying my life, loneliness is sometimes a recurrent melody, sometimes you just climb your poetry in your hair that grows in an undefined frame.

You know, in the last maneuver of the night I fell on my back, I would open it, so don't ask my sadness, which you came across in my bright eyes, saying why.

In the eyes of my worthless existence, don't I know?

The last remaining compassion for my tears that cried in the anxiety of death while I was carrying my body to the atlas quilt before the apocalypse.

I'm proud of the day.

At night, hope is its endless battery.

It's surprising, isn't it?

You put it in the bag on the day of the day, then take refuge in the most sublime altitude of the night.

They don't know my highest twitching eyes, my dreams.

Those who don't know are the key point, the hidden prelude of my vows and untold pains.

What a shame if I'm an orphan.

If I'm not enough, I really care about the world.

The last flutters of the pale pen: the footsteps of the happy spring that cast a shadow over my orphanage, I hear the footsteps of the migratory birds and I know that they are calling me.

The season of migration has come, the wind, my soul and heart that I hung on the syllables of love inside me.

The light of loneliness, which is an affliction, did not go out either.

My paradise awaits me is a mimosa garden: if hell had a foresight, the persecution that would last.

Approve or disapprove: I will continue to love quietly in my own way.

If it's a meeting I've postponed, the inexhaustible stampede inside me and my reputation, my dear.

Even when I was at war with my shadow, my words stigmatized the absence of you and here I am paying the price for being "me" and being dragged on the tail of my anxieties like a runaway cloud like a hopeless kite.

Let the kite runner target my heart, and the night in its tassels, let the band of loneliness, of which I am a soldier, play happily.

Dahlia?

Or a flock of birds hidden in bales of kites?

My nomadic existence and my solitude inspecting.

He shadows have a picture that hasn't been drawn yet, let alone usurer creatures and infidels who put a tambourine.

My existence and immunity if it is an altitude.

If I'm a syllable, it's called love.

If I am a flower, I must not be a rose.

Loving soothsayer.

Your death counter.

Yesterday's wheel is broken and my ears are twitching and ringing, sometimes bouncing off my heart like a coordinated bullet.

My manifestation from sadness and my soul hidden in the last days of November on the way to winter and the broken sill of the window I hung on from one day to the next and my hungry baby birds.

Bread in hand.

Longing in my heart.

I'm actually avenging my tale from yesterday.

My fugitive heart.

Your bouncer words are my sad confidant pen.

Never uttering my exposure and watching from afar, my wildest wind is my own shield, my own embers, my curse, and the faithful drop of the foaming waves.

Is that so…

A drop of dew.

I buried my gills deep on the eve of fading like a flower that sleeps and wakes up in the autumn.

This is the air I breathe.

My pale face.

If I were in shape, what would it be, it's just a dream hidden in my past.

You can never imagine what I've suffered, I will never hit my head, I just always make my prayers.

My endless verse.

Even if it ends, at the end, remember my existence.

I am as amorous and lonely as I remember, and ask someone who knows me first, so I gathered a bowl and comb, and went on my last journey.

If there is a problem.

If there is a hidden notch in my maturity.

I am the travel cloud of the wandering sky, what remains of my complicated existence, which still consoles itself with a shred of hope and defends its love.

I don't feel any shame, I don't complain about my life, I don't complain about my life, I pray to a servant of God.

I'm just a soldier who respects love and is content with his fate.

A Turkish girl who loves the land where I was born with my color.

If I am a folk song, it has not been sung yet.

My love and hope and my motherly soul, which is hidden in an unfinished orphan, maybe when the whole universe, which I kept hidden in my broken heart, came together and failed to love, didn't I love everyone, and if I didn't swear, I won't break my promise.

My weak existence and body, which is ready for silence, will surely find peace after living and loving properly.

A verse that speaks to my heart.

If I'm a note that sings inside me.

If I am a wind blowing inside me.

My entire complex and all my qualities hidden in one syllable.

Upright and fragile as a rose, and longing to smile so much, I will certainly find what I deserve, in the presence of resilience when I have squandered so much love without being burdened and I could not find any recompense on earth with that single iota of faithfulness to my Lord that I ran as hard as I did not give up.