|„ š Ś«||—Ő„Ś ی „ š Ś«||∆« —||šř«‘ی||ŕė”||„ š Ś«ی ŌŪź—«š||ĀŪśšŌ Ś«||ėśćŚ||ő«šŚ|
|ė‹‹‹‹‹«— š‹‹‹‹‹‹« ś«Š|
Stumbling down on the soilís residence
The passing by of the leaf
from the back side of the fence
and the touring of water lily in the trumpets of the colour
you bend down on the blister of earth
till the impossibility of the photos,
and you injure
†In the yawn of† the street
from which direction
begins† your mouth
Pick a fruit
From the channelsí branches.
I will run all the horses
As far as the yellow storms
Is the narrative of the melted snow.
Having delivered my quiet shoes and the stray ears
to the† canvas of Galleries
At any cost:
any wound wonít be gifted.
Having seeing you passing by
through the stations of the autumn
subtle and woundless
you are carrying the old summers on your shoulder and the
ďBizans ď skirt on theĒ HellenismĒ winds.
How on earth you escape from the yellow Vincent
while your hair was slightly shorter than the sunshine.
From the bitter orange
Take a glass
and leave me alone in† the companion
of your shoulderís cloud
leave me alone
on my own
with the two sipes of the fever
and a branch of the moon.
I have found my beginning
If the yellow storm lets me
Little is remained to the leaf.
Nostalgia has always the terrifying dress.
Sometimes† has the same colour as an ordinary jacket
and sometimes like a cloudy dress with a yawning closed button.
†In the silence of the bedsí sheets
at the edges of the evening
you pass by from the streetís patience
along with the moon which has taken a shelter under
from the lemonsí island
I fallow you .
Escape to the storm
I love the uproar of your dress
even when the wheat gets all the blames.
In the duration of† the grannie
the moon did not fall down in the closet
and my childhoodís money
was always as shinning as the moonlight.
|سخنرانی ها||استانبول||يک منظومه آواره||زبان لرزه||فيس بوک|