You used to dream of me in the front row of my hopes

Where are the traces of tears flowing from my eyes while you were dreaming?

Even the dreams of love that are now erased are not felt.

Listen to me and there is a black mourning with your dreams in my eyes.

With your dreams, I think of the years in a row. There is not a single sentence that belongs to you that will make me happy, together with the remaining time.

The moment I dream of you, it's as if it melts into your absence and it's not even clear what it is or where it's going.

There were no shadows reciting edicts on my bedside, and the silk-skinned sky of the sky that I sometimes frowned and turned into.

My interlocutor was sad and a tearful recital…

Seagulls whistling and here is my mischievous child in love with the sea, so in love with the blue sky that I cannot deny.

The temperament of the city was hidden in my nature, and the history that corresponds to the legends.

The season weaving from the sky and the birds flying in my chest.

The universe, ready for love, is as faithful to our Lord as we are, and the fate we are pleased with sometimes whispers flamingos, sometimes the gigantic bridges of the city make your lips drool.

Your mischievous words are sometimes the smiles that are wrapped around the reel.

Records of the turmoil of my life where I succumbed to my memory.

I was the city.

The city is the poet.

Seven hills standing still in a heavy downpour.

The waves, the subject of the season, the robes of the sky, the tails and cries of the seagulls I followed, dominated the city.

I had a lost milestone or not.

And I took refuge in the veil of my outdated dreams and the city, and the city embraced me.

The silky climate inside of me is perhaps almost every season when I am in dilemma…

I was a mournful wind.

The sometimes held speech of the soul in its curved paths.

My temple was gigantic, and your longing for love is hidden in its shabby tone.

I was the city; city ​​poetry.

In fact, I was a poem that spanned a lifetime, I had already recited millions of lines and was as happy as I praised.

Waves beyond my height.

Seagulls taking their hats off to the waves.

The words were my wings, and here are the seagulls that I imitated…

My self that I killed and my ego that I didn't give a fuck.

The lower memory was in continuous recording, more precisely, a lifetime.

With my passion and my longing.

I was in love with the city and while I was shedding tears in the city's sea, we were sailing wildly with the wind that I was enslaved by, and my motto is before the pen that I gave identity to the emotions that have no schematic form.

We were a nice trio.

The city and poetry and me.

Narrow streets of the city.

The huge square of my neighbourhood.

The last time I miss walking on the waterfront.

Recently, when I forgot to go, thousands of postcards were hidden in the European side of the city and here in the archive of my heart climate.

As I always do, every time I want to go out to the street freely and without a mask and shout in the dark of the night, as I always do: I talk nonstop and sometimes even if I don't give credit to my inner voice, all I can do in the dark of the night is to talk to the streets and wait for the morning at the door in the presence of my prayers.

Westerly wind.

The route of life.

Burning letters of love.

The city I belong to and the one that belongs to me.

Come see how Istanbul, where I fit tens of millions of people in its heart with its tiny area, my childhood, first youth, briefly my whole life, fit into the streets of the city. My faith and love while every shadow I cast is actually presenting me to me.

If I dare, I must be the one who loved the most, of course, the beloved and wounded city.

My soul mate city and the sun that rises on its seven hills at the same time and the breeze that illuminates me in the night, where I sometimes become a bird and sometimes blossom, thanks to the thousands of openings brought by the words I followed like a comet.