It was as if your eyes were the holy womb of the city where all the prophets named rebellion were born.
And the promised heaven was never the cure for the unhealing and aching wound in our souls.
And before we even stole it, the sacred apple tree in that garden had already burned down, and the blame fell on us.
Maybe this life to which we have been exiled is the hell of that beautiful land long ago...
14.51 at the end of this world.
* I'm not sure how accurate the translation is from a literary perspective, but I wanted the readers to at least understand me so that they can feel the spirit of the sentences a little.
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