My hidden unborn children and undying loves in my dowry chest
In your face covered with dreams, the city of love, and every time I fall, I fall in love with you again.
A long, long wait, a long, long wait, a smile stuck in the rivers of the sun-faced dervish mind, with wandering sentences hanging in the country cafes.
I praise every morning and cure loneliness, mostly with the enthusiasm of being us.
I was playing a red leaf, flying as the main girl.
It turns out that my meaning is not to fly, I realized this late.
I was going to write a poem for you.
I was going to name it pain.
However, why was a poem as if he would drink and make love?
As if they would order a poem anchovy, for example, a poem?
I am the smoking smoke of the city ferry and with the pain of being us, this time I forget to be me and fall in love with us.
Those who make us one of us…
Those who make us need us.
For example, squirrel shadows, and here is the lonesome loneliness hidden inside me, maybe I'm emulating a marble tombstone. Every time my paper is finished, I climb flat walls and the cat inside me scratches my red hair.
We were sworn to not love again.
We swore that the fire would not rekindle, and here are the demon's followers growling from afar.
It's a smile familiar to love.
Maybe it's the farewell to the nature I'm hanging on.
A melting iceberg and an ice globe.
They are the ones I put my head in.
The one who gives us the head is the one who offers us about hope.
As you are born in the sadness, poetry grows in sadness, love and the apocalypse of love break out and the dawn roars in your ringlets, the sky is dome after all, the temple of Divine Love, every cloud, every syllable that I mix as hope.
My wedding dress knitted from mimosas.
My unborn children and undying loves hidden in my dowry chest.
It's like a bed.
It's like a memory.
Sometimes like a stubborn mule.
For example, the slopes where I linger.
The sink I scrubbed.
If it's a service, my childhood, when I was remembered as a henna on my head, was a slippery floor and my confident mother and father holding my hand, my only plane tree, in any case, my hair, which is covered at the head of every prayer time I tucked into its skirt, is far behind.
When you carried the loneliness of a poem
It was a colossal mercy, perhaps the overwhelming ignorance of love.
Each opening parenthesis
Every closed door
A different farewell to each farewell
The rush of an unending secret
Patent leather shoes, dreams with your eyes closed
A rough cry hidden in your smile
Fading sunlight in the opposite of love
Loneliness darkening the night
The song and the ideal of the Snow
final b/stream before death
Getting out of a black and dry image
To reach the sea called poetry
Floor traces of pain
Lovers of power
The truth is the last prayer of the color.
Just as love has been added to the fattening body of the syllables
And here is your lost letters
Maybe the loneliness hidden in the virtue of a deposit
A smashing hit
A forgotten flower in the sky
Is it necessarily a delusional wind hidden in the ground?
The blue cover of poetry
Captive hidden in the ground
They don't know, every song is the nature of love
Far beyond what is known.
A sarcophagus consists of loving smiles.
If life is a contract, how blessed tomorrow is.
If he's a prophet, I'm willing to be an urban legend.
God of the painful sky beyond a smile, every cloud and the hope I embrace.
An arc is perhaps the one that cuts me off.
Is it an intention or is it the fattening rage of man?
A treacherous heart.
The secret of the rainbow hidden in the sky.
Anyway, my bruised knees.
Whatever the reason, my lost verses.
There are individual syllables, the veil of the sky.
There are pure people I'm after.
Oh my God, how great is love.
Sleepy eyes of the city.
My beloved pen, my whirling dervish poems, and the folds hidden in each of them, which I walk on like a skateboard from the feelings that have no nationality.
I am neither a loser nor a sovereign.
Neither illusion nor reality.
Neither fanatic nor fond.
I am not a disciple, neither your life nor the calendar is in the past.
After my miserable heart, which is considered incompatible, the bed of love is the sluggish one in me.
A dream that presents us to us, perhaps a hypocrisy that divides the sadness.
If it is a word that is passionate about a cantor, it overflows from the heart of the lost dervish.
The loss also means that every time I pick up a pen and the smoldering fire ends the season.
A memory is love.
Loneliness is a dress.
Anyway, I wanted to make up for the time I lost on the slope of the mountain.
