I got a smile that pierces love and eyes that can disqualify grief

What remains is a stampede: ignorant images and memories hidden in my intuitions, the sentinel of the world with subtitles in the course of a simple dream.

It was an unintentional shadow.

Before my hardened heart

Afterwards, the lines were ambiguous and ambiguous, large-bodied men.

Elephant memory is life, gigantic couplets are hidden at the bottom of the chest.

Another day and farewell, which I do not think so, that repeats itself in the iris of my hidden eye.

The world is in labor pains.

The shabby spirit of a life spent in seclusion.

I wonder if I was a long-beaked and long-legged stork of a reckless sky?

Tired hearts put on the counter in the dream market, disqualified kidneys, every time I get pain, I drop stones as much as poetry from my kidney.

It wasn't enough that I got stoned.

My dream was to be crowned, however, my dream was to be crowned, with a masculine mustache, a benevolent father who loves and distributes out of pocket. my rag dolls and tired spirits struggling on the floor mat, then my remote-controlled tanker.

A water tank is hidden inside.

The floor bucket and washcloth that I filled for water reasons are actually delicate, and my hands are very white.

My mother and my father…

One hand in oil and one in honey.

My skin and clear dreams would not touch the cold water.

I wish there was a milk port, a port that I practiced to solitude as much as I love and never stayed close to. the sadness that presses the vein of time.

Thousands of offers I've passed.

Of course, the vineyard I ate is with me.

Slow romance.

If there is an inner world that I observe with the subtitles of the heart and poems presenting to love, if there is no white on my forehead, if there is no white on my forehead, how many kilos will my heart weigh, that gigantic April stone full of pain and sadness, the square where I stand with my head high despite the slumped shoulders of a life that I was worried about, maybe my heart, whose stalactite melts in the love of the city's stalagmite, candle like a flickering candle, as plain as a candle, the hidden virginity of life where I was mummified, my solitude with large print, the conditions I questioned in my concave mirror, the notables of life yesterday.

Searching in the sky.

I can't find it anywhere.

A void that I'm offended.

It's a nice thing that I forgot the postage stamp of the letters I burned, which I shook off the ashes, and here is your new rank:

Don't think I'm a homing pigeon, sir, don't think that you are the only addressee of the letters I wrote and the father of the pier, the surrogates of the jellyfish, and the bleeding veins of the wall where I hammered nails are no longer there or not.

Love is a superstition.

An epic life.

There are not uniform words, but thousands of dead butterflies that land on my hair, which I knit, and finally the chimney smoke that I smoke, while I am the city ferry, and here the seagulls waiting on the pier are actually the new generation birds that inhabit the streets.

Those crumbs of bread crumbled by my mother's delicate hands.

I have to surrender its right to my mother's mother's heart.

Next to the sound of empty boxes on the slope of the cursed shadows, and here is the window of our living room, greeted by the gurgling seagulls.

Is it love?

And that thick silence.

Loneliness?

With my mother's smile, the gigantic street lamp illuminates both the day and the night, the dough of love and the course of faith, and hope is the most beautiful.

Since every word, every dervish, that remained in the heart has already vanished into thin air, and here I am covering my mourning with the love that grows inside me.

I can be a bird

Or an adult.

Perhaps I loved being a mother's lamb the most.

First of all, I am grateful to my dear mother when I was far away.

If it is a cloud that the sky wishes.

That skyline and hope that I was lost.

Life in seconds.

A smile that pierces love and my sudden and twitching eyes, which I can disqualify from sorrow, are now floating in my eye springs, cormorants, and the dexterity of love and love that I can pierce even the darkness with ease.

An act of travel.

An order is the one given by the Lord.

I'm on my head, dear fate.