Expatriate, literally, means leaving one's place, one's homeland, and staying away from mother, father, friend, and friends. It expresses a compulsory departure from our loved ones, acquaintances, those who understand our troubles, those who share our feelings, and those who speak our language, expatriate.
However, is it like that, expatriate? Is it measured only by the material distances involved? Isn't there another way of living it, can't it be described in other ways? Expatriate is longing, at the same time; Perhaps it means being abroad at home or at home.
Being abroad at home or at home is probably the loneliness felt in one's own inner world, it is a longing that is drawn to oneself, it is thought, and it is painful as one thinks, it is the pain in loneliness.
There is also living abroad. Living in an expat begins with the people who live it being alone with them. They either isolate themselves from the environment or the environment from themselves.
Living can be anything for them, a source of suffering or bliss.
Immigration is suffering in your heart, thinking about the lost, separation from them. Maybe the time has passed, but the hope of being together in the future gives the pain of separation, the longer his arrival is delayed. The road to return turns into an irreversible road as time passes.
Expatriate is the filling of eyes. The tears that accumulate between the eyelids are like the heartbreak, with the brightness of broken glass pieces. Those tears become lenses, on the wandering past, they give hope, bring them closer to the future. The roads it takes are guides. It's like saying 'out of here'. 'Come!'
Journey to the Unknown - Poetry
My pale wings, I'm far from myself
I'm stuck in places of no return, I'm sick of my heart,
I am tired for the black winter, I am silent for love,
I always pour the tears in my eyes towards me.
I'm all mourn in black tonight,
I look at the rain in the tears falling from my eyes,
I crash into the clouds like lightning in the sky,
I dug my grave, go into it alive and lie down.
I question myself about what we can't share
I'm offended by yesterdays and judging tomorrows,
I'm looking for answers to the questions I ask about love,
I am crying, neither has anyone known nor its description.
Erased From My Heart With Love - Poetry
You can't make believe your promises anymore,
After what you've done, you can't fool again
It will come out again, you will listen for the last time,
Without telling your trouble, you can throw it in it,
Even though this is my life without you, I can't forgive you, you say,
Even if it is alive, from the deep drenched in lies,
Your pain will hurt your heart now.
When the day breaks he cannot get up from his bed,
A heartache starts again like everything else,
He hurts himself, he revolts and disappears from his heart,
From the consumed dark prancing nights,
Her sad eyes are wrapped in her sadness,
It carries its dreams from its expectations for years,
The wraps of regret gently in the body of the person.
He remembers his old days, when he was cowardly and angry,
However, he would always run to his beloved with his heart,
She gets angry from the farthest places on the horizon,
A name is now forever erased from your heart,
He escapes questions and leaves himself,
Separations begin again in love without stopping,
Shadows are left behind, scars are erased from their traces.
The coming of the roads is very painful. First, he feels that his chest is constricting, his heart is twisted, the pillar of his nose aches.
It also gives some pleasure, but it is actually painful. Then he feels his eyes watering, past lenses illuminate his horizon, from there he looks to the future. The fact that the past and the future are so close to each other but also so distant makes one think that it will be very difficult. This sadness of the heart has made it abroad now. Expatriation is for him, it is in him. He struggles to be together all the time. This is very difficult. He is so desperate that he sometimes feels even the tears dry up. Then he can hardly see the past, it is dry, the roads cannot come this way, he stays in his throat as if they swallowed knotted. It is difficult to open that knot and it does not unravel, it just stays and says: Not today, journey, maybe another spring.
But still he is hopeful. Roads will be opened again, everything that is difficult will be overcome. Even if there are mountains in front of it or the seas, one day a reunion will take place. It will happen even at the expense of crossing mountains and deserts.
This is expatriate, this pain, this waiting, this loneliness. There is no need to look for foreigners outside, it is always with us, it is within us, and we are always abroad.
We want this for him: If yesterday and tomorrow they were very distant but close to each other. If the calendars are mixed up, yesterday is now today, if the roads stretch out here, the deserts open, and it ends, now foreigners.
Even if it is to meet, it is beautiful.
