He would paint his paintings in the color of sadness before he was ready

A crossroads covers the night without stopping,

Uncertainty has fallen, no one is asking about that sad person anymore.

When loneliness closes an era,

Each of the future days that will run into the past.

The street of the house where the doors are closed, the unknown hangs over it, the walls are filled with worries, and the walls are painted and they swear they can't enter.

He was walking away from the workshop, the paths he did not know. He stopped suddenly and felt the right side of his coat. However, he thought it was in his pocket, the ivory key chain, and when he looked, all he got was the petals of a dried rose. The wind of obscurity was blowing within him, and the flag of dereliction was waving. While he was struggling with longing, his body, the pen that collected the words flowing from his heart on a white page, was going to throw the last loop of the chain of letters tonight. Was he ready for the lonely invitation of the corridors, the calm flow of the hours and the sudden seizure of loneliness?

He had no doubts about the friendship of the night, but as always, he had to hide the words in his letter from people's rudimentary gazes for the last time. Therefore, escaping from the world, going to his shelter, to his workshop; He would distill his words for the last time in the ossified vessel of longing. As if saying goodbye to the sun, as if getting off the swing.

He was walking, in the moments when hurrying lost its meaning, he was spelling out the names of the far away like in a dream. As soon as he opened the glass door, the charming smell of wood greeted him with his welcoming attitude. He was not ready yet, but he was going to paint his paintings in the color of sadness. And as he listened, the paintings would read again. He caught a big give up and threw it out of the workshop. The memories did not allow him to shout the words, the paintings stood before him, the cry of silence slapped him in the face. They did not allow this silent farewell…

Before stopping by the workshop in the morning; He would leave the crumpled letter, which had not been able to reach its owner for days, after walking a little by the beach, where he had entrusted his hope to the seagulls. Maybe to the bosom of the blue waves, maybe among the bagel crumbs, maybe to the closest place to it. He was tried and tried in courtrooms all night long. He became a suspect, witnessed, but came without waiting for the last word. However, he had to cross high mountains in order to return.

As the black veil of night still glittered with pearls, a cry rose from the nook of the cemetery;

My limbs, kneaded with longing at every point, are waiting, motionless

My heart, which hides the sun, is desolate in the loneliness of the breaths taken.

The smell of death dispersed, and the last link of letters mingled with the mess of earthy bodies. The soil he had squeezed in his palms was now spelling words, tears were washing the blue ink. Screams mixed with the eternal silence of the last letter.

and he was calling her name again.

His lover, whom he entrusted to eternity.

The cry of loss at every step, the sentences that follow him as he looks back.

I plucked the hair of the stars from the hair of hope

I threw all the meaningless lies to the rags

I set alarm clocks, held your dream hands

There are those who miss in this land, come on without waiting.