It was not enough to lock your dreams, dream again in the heart of your dreams.
The city and poetry in vigilance, and I am swaying like a wildflower that delays opening, in that gigantic construction called Istanbul.
It is actually the field of flowers inside of me when I can still be a flower and smell flowers, still plant flowers, and still love from afar without touching them.
It's true that I'm opposed, you know, when people are pulling each other's collars with all these human and ridiculous efforts placed in the center of the world.
I am a song: is it a lie?
I am a country girl and she is in love with her country.
That I spawn and shovel and perch?
Ah, how can it be said that when I carry so much enthusiasm and oppression inside me and still standing upright despite everything.
Words mined in the countryside of my heart and the stampede inside me.
My feelings are not inconsistent, but my heart, my meaning and my words are churning in the sea of the amorous city like a steaming steamboat.
What I want to tell is never limited to these, and I must escape. Did I pull the night's atlas quilt over my body?
Ignore the smoking smoke that my words are not commonplace and of course my burnt-end letters that I beseech are actually stored in my own mailbox, and I was nothing more than a pile of bushes before I deserted and even though I was as loyal as I was to love and affection.
I poured gasoline on it, and I was reborn with my heart and soul in a fire that my being and body had never felt.
Not the sadness of poetry, but my only capital, on the contrary, poetry full of cities hidden inside me, and rebellion.
A nexus is my way to go.
A steep slope is a transformation.
And my imagination, which I still do not put off commuting, and my dreams are sailing.
I bleed a little bird from heart to heart, especially when I can fit all the hearts hidden in my heart into a bird, and the life that I take advantage of is sometimes coy while I live, and neither my poetry nor my supplications end…
In the most reliable words, the prophecy and nobility in the heart, of course, I wish for peace and peace, but I cannot reach a calm soul.
After all, the day's eyes are night, after all, I have completely imprisoned the daylight in its inner pocket, a pre-apocalyptic sign that overflows from my heart and its periphery, and like the songs that bloom in my heart that flirts with every word I come across, like a butterfly hidden in the ball of my heart, like a butterfly hidden in the bun of the heart, and leaving the calendered emotions smothered by the wicked, I set out for a lifetime. It is only when the fort is not taken into account that a miracle happens when we do not know whether the pen is a virtue or a torture anymore.
The truths are hidden in the warehouse of which dream, and which dream is the one that reveals the truths loaded on the stone at the feet of the clouds.
It is a life leading to a carrom, in fact, it is a prayer hidden in the bus of the night that emerges. It is the genealogy of the night that I put on my forehead with a longing and innocent touch, and of living with the white of my forehead.
Maybe it's because I'm running back, and maybe life is a burned song hidden in the moment when I annotated my belief that I recourse to my life like a prayer hidden in the marble tombstone of my heart.
My heart and my existence.
It's obvious that I'm not considered very credible, maybe I'm chasing the star at night.
The sadness I'm addicted to and the life I button up my jacket.
Engaging in escaping from myself is perhaps the dilemma of a poem that reproduces in the riot of the night that broke the dawn after I disappeared.
I measure the universe on my ruler of sadness.
A person who lives indifferently throws me a stone.
The joys in me remained in yesterday.
It's a day sometimes looking for an equal.
Every edict I wrote is necessarily the one before my last edict, my stories that I still can't classify, and my heart in the city of words that I was dry in the city of words that I loved unknowingly and that I was seated on the throne with my loneliness, finally I ran to my Lord but I could never come to terms with myself.
The pen and the decipher of texts, if I sleep with sheep.
The life I have hand in hand is a sinking boat of hope in which I am often angry and offended.
My motto is love and belief that I eventually lead myself, in fact, I have given way to myself many times.
My one syllable name is rose temperament.
A syllable is witty when it is certainly not a feeling as much as love, which fits the universe into it.
Before my time is up.
My signature is also without approval.
Although I could not get enough of writing after my whole life that I lived ignorant of all the emotions I hoarded, I gave myself a new chance and a new chance in pain and in every debate I had with myself, while I was as well equipped as I was burdened with a narrative and humility.
