Old dusty books are flying above us like birds that can't fly in a storm.
We close ourselves and embrace ourselves.
In a blinding desert, the sands of time rain down on our eyes.
The winds are pouring down on us like waterfalls,my love,
My wounds are high like mountains and in rows,
Red rivers flow from my mountains and melt from my chest to the meadows of my skin...
A squirrel snatches my soul that falls to the bottom of a tree and carries it away,
I rise, lightening up, running to the sky, then in his mouth.
Winds are pouring down from us like waterfalls, my love,
The walls of our aging souls are falling down here and there from the old houses we live in,
Poems are the nuclear weapon, the only hope of all the dreams we hide behind our lips,
I lost count, tired of fighting, believe me,
Our eighth world war is probably with you.
An intellectual show-off effort, now only dying is on the tongues of aristocratic, immature children at parties...
We died with you many times, we were reborn many times...
We have seen many wars hand in hand,
And deaths are the water of the earth, so that the newly bloomed red poppies can drink it wholeheartedly on a spring day...
People are crying like a flood from earth to sky.
Suicides are committing suicide and dying like a few days old grass in my head and in my backyard,
And my eyes are filled with tears.
I say to them all, smilingly, "Get out of here."
08.07 Ancient consciences and holy angels who were given the authority to die...
* Unfortunately, we often lose rhymes due to word changes in translation from one language to another, but I still do this so that you can get closer to the sentences in terms of pure meaning and emotion, feel them and think about them. Thank you for your understanding.
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