My heart is sad but moving like a bird these days

I vouch for my dreams, a drop of dew that I could not fall, and the bondage of love: the hidden smile of the sky, which I failed while living the love I stole from words.

Hidden in the stages is life and death.

The ringing bells and skirts of the pen that defies immortality.

My story full of remorse and my indispensable sadness.

Autumn from seasons and orphan pains and months inside me.

The square root is your soul and my alluring hunger and all the emotion I've swept.

The syllables weren't enough that I ate lead on the run, now I'm heavier than lead.

The coldness of the heart as I gasp and grow on the ground.

I'm in the days when I played blind and my body glowed: I'm sweating as I sweat, longing for the fever, maybe longing for the day I got the measles.

I've been running.

I'm lost.

It's an evening when I'm lost and my little body bouncing on the grass.

A lever.

A canon symphony.

He meant it in November, this year and at work, which I gave to the season I resent, whereas my soul mate is autumn and my leaves are always yellow and pale, the sunlight is fading on my face.

There are people I need to take care of and my wayward side that I got rid of and my sometimes sugary temperament like lemonade forgotten in a jug, sometimes sour, maybe the weather does not favor me. As I remember last autumn as summer and say summer, the voice inside me is the urge to write that this time the pen matches.

If it's a rebellion, it's like my footsteps that come and go in the Janissary Corps, which I have to suppress.

Bullet in your ear.

While the birds are whispering in my ear, sometimes the silent universe and sometimes my overflowing temperament.

Shadows.

Castles from the walls of the sadness on its shadowy road.

The first line of hijab and my Lord, whom I ask for forgiveness.

The desire to fly with my wingless body, and the dozens of birds that landed on the window in the early hours of the morning, and the maternal heart of my mother, which my mother made perfectly before breakfast and took care of the flock of birds with bread crumbs.

Maybe I, with the wind of Shams blowing softly, although I was never a good child, the only person I became a child at this age and only opened my heart is my mother and while I was the only witness to every emotion I couldn't express, my God, my eyes in the sky that I sometimes avoid even saying to myself and sometimes miss A long and invisible road behind the cloud, where I aligned my thoughts while standing, almost as a traveler, I got closer to my Lord with the sound of the prayer in the first light of the morning when I went for inspection.

I'm usually sad.

My hope is sometimes uniform.

The yellow leaves hidden in my sadness bundle are perhaps a lifetime supply.

,The sky's bill of lading is obviously the journey is near and all the orphaned birds I've matched with my wings, so my mother's favorite is to hunt them down and take care of them and quench their hunger.

There is a lot about this snapshot.

More than a word actually.

Although it seems like just a symbol, the hunger of the birds is the harvest of happiness for me.

Each and every one of the angels sent by the Creator from heaven, where birds do not really leave people alone on a balcony full of flowers, which remains in the past as a memory and witnessed the bird assembly.

The flowers, on the other hand, are like musky amber hidden in the air and in the musk.

My words took wings again.

I, on the other hand, ride on the back of my pen and circumambulate the heavens with the birds.

And I go back to my childhood and the birds that I used to pass my loneliness away and my late grandmother when she was my only playmate:

Two doves that sometimes land on the glass and sometimes nest in the opposite tree and their tiny cubs: I'm eight years old and I was imprisoned in front of the window with my broken plastered foot, and that long and painful month when this beautiful dove family kept me company while my foot was in plaster.

Shout out to the seasons today.

Bird climate from seasons: what a creature that is free like a bird, and the images and cursors that poems carry in their beaks when their joints hurt, and words full of enormous mercy...

Big pieces of bread that they ate from my mother's hand lately, when even Istanbul has slowly turned into a dry city and the seagulls that inhabit the streets have been haunting the house's window and their huge trunks on that narrow sill.

Coming out for inspection during the day.

The one that helped me write a day-to-day story.

While I am free and in love like a bird, I hone my stingy wings and wander in the sky, ignoring my humanity, day and night.

And every beauty that I love and remember persistently comes and sits on my shoulder.

He who ministers to a bird.

My heart is excited and moving like a bird.

Sometimes, while it is the composition of loneliness that I am defeated and sung, it is the common voice of the universe and love.

It shouldn't be hard to make my dreams come true, at least when I dream and write, I am as free as a bird, sometimes while I'm hanging my wings on thorns and sometimes when I sink myself into thorns, but freedom and dreams should not be an element of crime, and I am as free as birds at least when I dream and go on life and life. when i love the universe

A bird never hurts.