Long syllables are hidden in the air.
The weather pattern is neither winter nor autumn.
The endowed secrets of a sad night when I sewed pillows from words whose anatomy was shattered by a departure.
I am the muralist of love, like a road I compiled from free dreams.
You are my emulation.
You are the one I killed.
You are my orphanage and you are the summary of your life: my anger at the sun is recorded in the genealogy of the night, the birds of Ebil, hidden in my damp shade like a boat, and now I perch in that secluded corner in your heart.
It's like a random gift.
The food of my swaddled heart.
Isn't it enough that I don't keep stitches, my rebellious temperament that I love insistently, and the whistle that pierces my eyes in the captivity of this love that I can't destroy is in a corner of the night where I am sometimes forgotten.
If I tell you that I love.
With my reserved temperament…
Oh, if I just take a rest for the night.
Boats are floating on my wings, my dear, I am a mise-en-scene in Kağıthane that corresponds to the unknown.
I rolled up my legs.
My arms too.
Even if their soles are on fire, I am going back and forth like a battalion of soldiers, in the hops of you and your heart.
My pain is divine.
My fading image in the temperate season.
My waiting full of love and longing hidden in my power of faith.
I put the day to sleep in my bosom and roasted the night like roasted chickpeas and before I said roasted chickpeas, you thought through the next sentence, you…
The voice of insensitivity.
You are the sky of my heart and it is like a rhyme that I can never forget.
If I say it in bird language, my love for you.
My heart leaps like a bird.
My words flutter like birds, oh my words.
They are my wings.
You're the one I bleed again.
My nobility is hidden in every bleeding syllable.
Maybe I'm a rebellious wind, a fairy of noble lineage:
In your name, if you want, fall or be inspired, I am bound to believe everything you say.
I know you don't like to talk very much, while I am chanting and chanting like a barrel organ, the traveling nightingale in me.
Neither my rose nor a nightingale sometimes.
I am neither clumsy nor talented.
This is how I am when I love, dear.
I exist, but I do not know, but I live and write in the geography of his heart, after all, I live in that forested land where I got lost in existence.
My grieving miserable shadow.
Words with the force of law are sometimes every grave I was buried alive in my life where I was tested, who sucked me in and who was hidden I killed chasing after my soul I was stuck in every second I took my breath Here I was stuck in every second I stumbled upon it was actually a story in your eyes my poems about being a subject without you I have to admit that maybe it never existed in the world Just as I was the least clown of the wind, whose people I was most attracted to, I followed the shadow.
I'm hazel.
I am a free season.
A hidden humility in my underrated existence, perhaps a prisoner of love.
What is the burning fire?
The letters I burned melted like candles before my eyes.
It is a hole hidden in the tree I lean on, your presence is where I escape every time I get stuck.
The impossible is my love, the syllable that I am divided in a frame that I never belong to, like a picture hidden in the past that I have killed sometimes.
You blow on the floors of my soul.
When I hung a hanger, we did not cut it from time immemorial.
A hook I hung on and a story I was a follower of, and I stole these fluttering wings from the birds.
If you are a dream.
If you want to think about it.
If it is to fall, you have not been able to get out of my way since I fell into the pits of my mind, you are in the corridors of my mind, and I am as fond of love as I am to my dignity.
By me being ignored.
As I am deprived.
Especially the last crumbs left behind from an unfounded love combined with poverty...
Especially when you've already given up on me.
If it is a reach from myself that I cannot give up, if it is a gerund whose name is love, it suffocates my existence with your deprivation...
Acceptance, albeit difficult.
It's obvious that I'm a dream you let out of your eyes, like every tear that fell from my eyes, and I killed you on the snowy slopes of the mountain, and I killed you now, while I dedicate all my soulless poems to your dream after your departure...
Ask me from the birds of torment.
If I am a god who is content with little, it was a love that I came across in my dreams, while mine was written in the history of my destiny, and at work, I erased both my heart and eyes and you as you never existed. It is not even a commonplace discourse, then I buried the last crumb of its inaccessible existence, with my inadequacy, on the feet I laid down in my world.
