You will anchor to a blind rock
Either you’ll become moss in this life,
Or you’ll be the last, an old rascal.
The sea will be sheeted,
You’ll look at your reflection,
Your hair and beard will foam,
Your face will vanish.
You, who will deceive Adam’s fate.
I’m talking about love, my friend—it’s not for you. Of course, I have my reasons. I assume you’re human, with all your good and bad. You get jealous, don’t you? Sometimes you want to lock someone in a cage. After all, you’re a poet; you try to understand what I mean by the ribcage. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll explain anyway, because I know you’ll understand…
For instance, your self isn’t enough for you. You want to become a better version of yourself. Haven’t you ever been jealous of the writings you penned last year? Even gotten angry, pressing hard on the paper?
Even these lines feel like they won’t belong to you. Because you will remain a prisoner in your present.
How long has it been since you last cried? You’ve forgotten. Isn’t crying for your own existence part of being yourself? In Ankara, in that one-room place, what did you do for years? Even you became distant. Don’t you ever miss me?
Now, in Istanbul, in your mother’s house, in a city beautiful for centuries,You ask, “How much must I squint my eyes to see yesterday?” Sometimes, you can’t get the adjustment right. You close your eyes. At dawn, you fall asleep.
Do you realize what a train ticket is capable of?
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