You give room to dreams, dear.
What is it that the soles of loneliness burn?
The stillness of the sprout in me
What is the devil in your forked voice, my being a whirling dervish?
Your life that I can't sew is a complacency
Even though happiness is a rumor.
More than what all these sentences that I keep pure have added to me
What is your life that I did not enjoy
I fall and get up on your shadowy roads.
Of course plus the braces I lay every night
I wander like crazy in the spiral of love.
Gone are the days when I put my dilemma words though. Far from being a creature victimized by a world that I am diametrically opposed to, I am stuck in the monopoly of the inner voice and sadness that every day I dictate, fueled by my loneliness and the love that I try to say in an appropriate language.
Neşri is yesterday.
The satire of the day I conveyed.
A hidden enthusiasm.
And a sudden flash of anger.
Of course, it is a virtue tormented by love, my fondness for words is perhaps the forerunner of the apocalypse that will break, the fire burning inside me.
Yours is the silence of the night.
My heart's fondness for love is unique to itself.
Myself, which I cannot love as much as I live with it, and myself.
Out of the dream of a world without me, I fell on the road and fell in love.
When you fell, your words turned pale with love and it was a hazel vibration that I missed walking freely in the streets of Istanbul.
Many more things I miss, perhaps the judgment I gave to my soul, which is considered a commonplace word, and while I was suffocating, I did not know that I would get further away from myself in the rematch of love.
My most beautiful years of your life, which went down before you.
Of course, my ability to stay beautiful is a success hidden in my heart.
I am blessed with your love.
The one who is envious, the one who triggers my love and faith even more.
My heart is agitated, my beloved.
The birds of the city, where I am easily happy even in the fury of sadness, and most of all I host in the window of hope.
My wings are finally out.
When I bleed as much as I bleed.
The thick walls of a prison at the beginning of the street where I was left, maybe I will never be released.
Come see that both the voice and the word are passed and heard.
I can turn a dungeon into a paradise.
If it's a paradise, then the shadows I created that dragged me into the fire of hell before madness, and those who chased after the demon who boasted about his curse.
Hey go, hey humanity.
Whispers that spread from ear to ear, however, I am in love to enlarge the light inside me.
I can't say trouble, nor do I worry for nothing: and God is above.
Maybe that's why I don't hide what God knows.
In the lane of pain, the flag is in my hand and they even pulled a glorious loneliness.
However, it was the last quarter of my life that I was tied by a thread of cotton, it was a carnival of sadness, after my feelings and my dead soul, which I restrained in order not to deviate from this unique climate and dilemma in order to keep my life and destiny astray, it was almost like a carnival of sadness, where I opened my heart, loved and intended, but sought ways to escape from the restless world...
Of course, the rips that I sew with my words are the emanation of a love to fall into, and like a nail mark on the slipping socks of pain, the silence is actually scratched.
Mine is a pass.
From one world to another, because all I can do is love and write, while people are looking for a hole to escape with my inexhaustible supplication, of course, I agree, after all, I am drifting day by day with the emptiness inside me and the wind of the pleasantness I keep hidden in my heart, day by day, and my only escape is love, my only escape is my poems revolving in my songs like a romance I will finally reconcile and it is impossible to break apart like an atom with my moving heart.
I have a skill or I don't.
But I am also full of the miserable adjectives added.
I am a super human being, I am being watched in a basket of paradise that I knitted for myself out of scavenging feelings, and sometimes when I was in silence, I escaped from the day when I had appetizers and hid for the night.
Of course, it is my pen that makes the night bright, and next to the darkness of the night, which I can still see clearly with the inextinguishable torch of love, the chapters of that final happiness and leveling up, which I hope to reach out from the short summary of the life I live like a poem in the form of a quote, are the chapters of guidance.
I smoke until I'm not afraid.
I'm circling as much as I smoke.
And I draw your picture, of course, at the poetry station of your dreams, with the encouragement of the hope hidden behind a veil in the splendor of images, I just stay silent and wait patiently: how would I see the sun that I see through that window, which is the occasion of gratitude, somehow, if there is no incessant eyeballing and giving me light, how would I see in front of me for a lifetime, moreover, without falling far away. that every new day, which is also conducive to living, coincides with hope.
