I had a dream about you again last night
in the whitest rain.
It was as if not a dream,
you were smiling into my eyes.
Every drop was a sorrow.
You've become the tears in my eyes.
Enough, what's more than this is death!
Don't come to my nights anymore!
A wind blows from those days.
My hope runs out on you.
It hides these gazes from you.
It's a darkest sorrow.
And life's worth sharing,
if you know a secret,
I should have told it to
mountains and rocks!
I don't drink on İstiklal street anymore.
In the mornings Mrs Fatma is waking me up.
Halva, bread, tea; they're taking care of me.
My room's a mess as if in ruins, I'm in ruins.
Nobody's meddling with my business.
Time to time, I go out in the balcony.
When sweet basils dried, it was january,
I'm waiting for the spring.
I still have a hope that I don't know
what it is about.
My eyes catch the sight of bottles.
I wish I could do it, it'd be fine if I could.
Nowadays I'm like this, I'm living inside the poem called grieving.
There's your smile on one corner, and on my back your bloody knife remains.
I'm drinking you up in a scream
that you'll never hear
or a scream that you won't understand even if you heard.