I was in a non wet love with you At mysterious glances in a stormy life This is not just a fancy, with great hopes Without giving a damn to any fears With the dismay of your absence, I loved only you. At your heart beat, at your eyes gaze As if kerem’s aslı ,
Sebastian, I cannot say to you it is the snow of this peak for sure Every branch you wake up on, every patch you roll over, they are not yours You have not given birth to them Sebastion, how come you would feel One gets halved in two, yet neither like pomegranate nor a watermelon
look how many sins got hollow, out of crying how many kissed from the cheek of a crime with its eyes got swollen i am in the middle of one evening which got its color stolen – then it went mad – they always look from a distance at the dirty garden which ends in
the night breeds nightmares out of hunger our sleeps in the swaddling clothes with mildew of undisturbed bloody stripes on our palms the stones are not to blame there should be something in all of us driving them nuts all of a sudden our wounds appear sprouted let us count how many steps does this
how many fold human lives inside a person how come one man can dress so many of them ihsan fury sharpened by patience how many times it can multiply a man i have never seen a naked human there was always somebody on somebody else making love is one of those for instance it is
When time passes by urgently, it is not that short You are the essence of time drinking pure love and light By stretching from one thousand five hundred years And you are the only eye liberated from lower self and malice… I descend from Oguz, my pride is evident here and there Courage and bravery,
To Stefan Tsanev I do remember that lightning passing through my throat, for an unknown thirsty one while I was carrying water under my tongue; a hungry soul had imprisoned me in his apple of the eye, I was though presenting to him a hope for some bread. I’d like to say this: I feel
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desert holds its peace, i take out an oasis out of me my hand clutches my other hand… T. Uyar Uyar, he did talk about galleys somehow he couldn’t capture and take out love out of much frequented bars i was saying hurricane though. while i was entrusting myself to a mute drunk yes, it
Tinsmith master Bekir Like the last coppersmiths He is one of surviving ones. He dusted the copper with salammoniac His 40 years old pain in his belly crashing him. While tin was melting and sparkling Master Bekir is hopeful, and long years seem terrifying. *** Mihriman folk song made Master Bekir Fall in love with
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right after going to bed a deluge of memories surges, the dreams are not dreams at all – the documentary of the years: the same old village, the same street, the same house and the some chamber… at the window left ajar – your forgotten looks, the sweat of your hands – on the book-smelling
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