I want to touch it with my words with the tips of my fingers

I am waiting for the rains of hope again this season.

I held the waist of my bare words in the tik tok of the night,

Some innocent and timid

Broken pearls on someone's neck.

As he walked to the execution bench, the tears that stayed between his eyelashes came to mind;

In fact, we were not so worthless, you made an appetizer for your joy in every fire.

You turned the rains of hope to ash.

Now tell me, my love; my color is blurred. My eyes were covered with blood.

However, I had a soul in love with beauty, goodness and love. You burned and scattered my ashes.

What happened next?

My throat is knotted, I am speechless.

My pen stopped working. Despite all the broken voices, I say, my Lord, send a rain of hope despite my heart that cannot fill the papers and my hands that cannot hold a pen.

If the heart falls into the autumn, it sheds its leaves; I am expressing my supplication to the skies now that of course there is a spring on the horizon.

I remember every night as dawn, and every winter pregnant with spring. The warmth of my heart was beyond the warmth of a tea.

At a young age, I set out with the motto of touching with the tips of my fingers and caressing with my words.

Clinging to the skin of the pen, never letting go, when he was about eleven or twelve years old, he got caught in the tail of the wind. He swallowed the years in one fell swoop.

For my pen, I never said that it was straightened towards the beautiful, that it gave birth to beautiful words.

I can't write in writing. I manage with what is attached to the strainer where my heart canal will empty.

Is there an end? What happens when you write? Who reads what you write? Who would like it!

My ears are stuffy, I'm trying to write little by little so that my worst feelings can take wings from the sack on my back.

Even if you don't, write.

Because writing is giving hope to every day.

Sadness, pain, pleasure, reproach, love. whatever you write

Every word contains hope in its sentence root.

An empty man becomes the devil's toy.

Let rain of hope fall on our skirts now.

And with the friendship of pen and book, let's get wet in this rain.

Let's start again for tomorrow in the morning, despite the dark clouds to our marrow.

Don't take shelter in the drops between our eyelashes with excuses in the difficult questions of the exam. Don't forget, when the eye can see, even the opening and closing of your eyelashes is a hope for tomorrow!

Let me add a water story to the rest of my article!

The Creator commanded it to flow.

He gave love, he gave mercy, sometimes he could go crazy and lose himself.

Oh said the water! My mood began to flow happily and happily. He has thought of everything, calculated everything, but

He did not take into account a human being or love at all.

The water was flowing as you know it. Sentence was tasting the beings, rain water, snow water mixed with his blood. He would wake up to the sounds of birds chirping every morning, look around with love, and embrace his dear friends, who showed their gratitude to him, with an endless peace of colors in their eyes.

One morning, the water woke up with strange noises, someone was breaking the stomach of the land next to the shore!

Unwittingly, the end of the business would touch him, the pain of the soil that tried to be a partner.

As a part of him was divided and making his way through the innocence of the land, he could only realize something.

You know, this is a fairy tale, days chased months, months chased darkness

Sometimes he cried for the wheat crushed on a millstone and sometimes accompanied the song of a bride whose death lived in her own bay!

Well done! He paid no attention to the sets set up in front of him, to the rudeness of the poor people who damaged his cleanliness! Even though his mood is a little off, he still has no complaints. He even felt contented when he heard what was said about him. What they did was not a little thing!

It was May, I don't know, maybe September. It's that day!

In a place where he encountered a being that he had not seen until that day, where he was a lake. On her right is a smooth blue, on her left is a snow-white beauty.

He took a pen, our water! He started to write the beauties he saw. No matter how much he writes, it is not enough to run after those beauties.

Surprised; he was so surprised; Liver fish have become enemies with the algae added to their bread. He was helpless; so helpless; One day, the next door neighbor got into trouble with the willow tree! The idea he got is in his pockets, he stole the flower's door. That's where it all started that day!

Sometimes our water rushed and sometimes wept. Accumulating modern love

He wrote his most beautiful poems, prayed for separation in every holy place he touched, as long as his tongue became clear.

It was that day, the water in its most beautiful form. Wearing their groom's suit

He wiped the tears of happiness from his eyes. Your flower that has arrived

to the door. And what can he see, a dagger in his hand cuts off the head of the lotus

a son of man!

that's after that day

Sometimes it overflowed, sometimes it ran. Whatever came, the water swept in front of it.

Even though every water has a flower, no one has the power to love...