Urban blue was the veil of a smile
Every time you speak of loneliness that makes love
The night and the full moon were embarrassed
On the plump wings of the city
A traveler who transcends continents
Of course flying from one side to the other
Peace hidden in the intricate silence of longing
Whatever prevents life before death
The crawling traveler had something to say deeply.
Perhaps the look of a wounded gazelle that takes shelter in the veil of loneliness that announces yesterday. The heart is in love with every butterfly flying while it is the staff of love, and the loneliness that is ripped up.
It must be a grueling journey, while sometimes tears and shabby shadows are inwardly reserved, in the constant vigilance in which imperative mode is the cursor that knows the end?
If the lines are faithful life, sometimes unbuttoned and the prescription of dignity is a person who loves and lives quietly. Those pilgrims who are the ruler of the day, the tormented justice, sometimes with loneliness that pecked yesterday like a rubai placed in the cloud, and the legends of the legends fall into the moment, whereas the present time will soon migrate to every remaining peninsula in yesterday.
Tomorrow is your horizon.
In the heart of the night remembered.
Every word of love is the hopes that have escaped and hit the bottom, and here is the hectic voice of the hero escaping from the sometimes incongruous and sometimes incoherent fairy tales, where words rebel.
Perhaps a forgotten happiness in the nook, or his reign when his anxious life was impossible to last while he was the deity of delusions. Since we sowed dreams, we cut out the truths after dreaming, we circumambulated the universe like a shadow that takes shelter in that love parenthesis.
Every thought of loneliness to yourself. If you dismantle it, the sign of the truth is sometimes like the past that you take into account from your sad eyes, the rough wind hidden in yesterday's veil, sometimes the temperament hidden in the braided hair of the truth.
Every pain that dies in the day, tends to be angry, sometimes like a Bedouin who grieves the age that falls from the sight of the slingshot and hides it for tomorrow. This must be to love insistently, and to wait for the proof of course: the pains, without shadowing the sign of longing, may be the years when a pinch of wind sprinkled on the relative journey of love and stole life. The heart of the past with mothballs is the most beckoning and calling the day, of course, the dreams that escaped from a temperamental soul yesterday.
If the mood of the dawn with the cries of the season is fading, the angels hidden in the gigantic patch of the sky are human beings, the content of the mercy that falls in every smile about loving who is on the road, the content of the love of life, of course, the joy of continuing in every hope of loneliness that embraces tomorrow. I am a stranger to abandoned dreams, of course, I urge the indifference of loneliness.
On the day of recording, I am dying with poems, in this endless nightmare I belong to, sometimes with that escapes on the wings of the saint, sometimes with every particle that flies over the buoyant force of love.
My cells are detonating.
That dark corridor I can't get out of.
Every time I love without feeling cold.
Maybe that contract that I will never sign under.
The words are a ground in its hidden repertoire that offers mystery and, of course, bales of dreams, which whenever I skim, reproach and reproach to the demon who spewed his curse. My vows that I have not been a dream come true, and every corner that I am forgotten is of course my head straight and I never bend forward.
My confidant is that dark cell where the void words escape, before sleep, where I had divine dreams, most of the season and night.
Every ghost who has made an invisible track record in my mourning and my hidden privacy is only a gift from yesterday. If I am the traveler I dedicate in the eyes of my slanting-eyed pen, I am the expedition, a belief that I sometimes lose hope, that I am a registered mortal in the mechanism, and the fact that a figured shadow follows me is the so-called final edict that I stop to cry out for me.
Is life the key point?
In the eyes of the vengeful shadows, an ointment is almost a taboo of the sky, while traveling stars and dreams traveling in my eye fountains are actually what is real on an imaginary ground, sometimes poetry in the window of the night I breathe and sometimes become poetry. Hope and love, while my half-century life is unfinished, my quarter temperament carries my reservations and guides my soul.
Now I am telling the crying night watchman, and then the seagulls that may spread the address of the street, while Ramadan forgot the drummer, resent the sea, Istanbul is resentful of the years and its people. And here it is emptied from force majeure before the closure, the loving city of course, the two sides of which do not come together, as it has written on its tagline, while the heart of the heart is sometimes hidden in the eyes of the city and sometimes in the veil of the Sea of Marmara, the forerunner of May is the sun's warmth, while the decree of the days we longed for bright and arm-in-arm walks surely emerges from the poet's pen. .
Rough, of course, the nature of the wind.
The military unit that went on the expedition like Khorasan also erected a flag.
The bazooka of love is the life file of the heart and law enforcement officers are at work. Even the sky of the city is emptying and while the spirit of migratory birds, flamingos on the run are different parts of the city that have already settled.
People only need to be displaced from their homeland.
The cry of a crowded city before it closes.
Maybe the city is resentful of its people.
Or is it people excluding the city and its population of twenty million melting in a short period of time.
Like a candle.
Maybe see your mummy place.
While a pantomime artist hidden in every frame marked M / is the sycophant of the sky that turns from color to color, the clouds may be of the traveling birds and the wind whose veil is alone.
His scream is not heard.
What reckless shadows haunt.
And here is the mosaic of the city and the swallows and the resentment of the seagulls dwelling in the streets.
In fact, everyone is offended by everyone, most of all to themselves.
It is rumored.
Of course, we will wait and see, as long as the date of warm greetings and hugs is near.
