I'm longing for you like the longing of two sides for each other

This ecstatic city has no season and no prose, but I am an orphan who interprets my prayers.

I am a star, the ideal of these endless feelings that I sometimes take advantage of from a poet whose arias are the transcendent bliss of God and love, which I sometimes wish for tranquility, and here is a poem annotated on the city.

The authority of nothingness in me.

Seagulls with tired lines on my face and the wind of eternity that I will share the bagel I ate.

Superstitions are sometimes silent.

If love is an urban legend, how am I passionate about this city?

From the heart that slams the levered words.

The moment I succumbed to the gloom of the mossy sea full of painful smiles and hiccups.

Happiness on my chest.

The broken heart inside me.

The blue sea where I rowed against the current in solitude.

While the burden of the city and the culture are ruining my mind and the love I have fallen asleep and the loneliness I have been enjoying, I stand on my feet day by day and every mile of the city that I am announcing, while I have stolen from the invincible birds this love and here I am flying, syllable and syllable, I am flying the baby bird and hope in me.

The five states of my sadness.

The solid state of love and the gas state and the water state…

I quench my thirst.

I put my silent cries into words.

Remembering a painful night as a day…

Touching my singing tongue like a rose...

My flying hair and my pen to the nightingale, I am a valiant soldier of love and my memories of yesterday and doubt, where I built bridges with verses and pale poems when I was adorned with life, and here I am writing one by one thanks to those who understand the situation.

What if I'm full of sadness?

Is it nice if I drink sadness?

The lost rhythm of your life, sometimes the tempo of your dreams.

And I'm running on my heels from one end of the city to the other...

My headstrong temperament.

Stand-up, my love.

I am compiling stories from the wistful wind and seagulls and the feelings that come to the yacht, sometimes I struggle with the fire of an age, which I know as a mercenary love, sometimes a longing for a bouncer, and sometimes a reunion...

Maybe I'm lonely and I'm slowly climbing the slopes of the city.

While knitting my days, I put the spirit of the city into me with elegant aphorisms, actually I have a stylish love with the city.

Our wounds are common.

The reality we reflect.

We were wrong too.

And as we are mentioned, our ears are ringing one by one.

a shrine.

A compliance.

A pain.

A nobility.

Equivalent.

Cure of love.

The embers of loneliness.

The longing of the two sides for each other, the call of the Lord, and every heart we compass...

The desertion of the Gregorian calendar, the announcement of the calendar.

Our tissue.

We touched.

Like the harmony of my red and white blood cells on the cover we lay, my soul mates are the city and me.

Our temperament is perplexed.

My tongue is stuck sometimes.

Of that noble trembling city that drowns out the silence.

The city of Istanbul, which is a small area in the Atlas and millions of people sheltering in it, many bridges, many opportunities, many narrowness for some, existence for some, absence for others, but a tremendous addition to the name of love.

Like rain dripping on the forelock of my words.

The climate of sparks leaping from my eyes.

It's my gut.

Embroidery and publication of love.

You are a city of prose.

You are a prisoner of love.

Happiness itself is sometimes the roads beyond the confluence, and here I sit cross-legged, sometimes miss the two sides, sometimes whistling and paining, I greet the new day after the night and inhale the smell of the sea...

The price of your love is increased and I vouch for this love, hey you my dear one.