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The Son of Rome, strong and clear in mind,
Once proud and mighty, a holder of power,
Has fallen to the depths of humankind,
Not asking of his downfall and best hour.
From day to day, his seed did change and grow
In others shapes, not meant for nature's rules,
Its soil has turned fruitless, it is barren now,
Turning from geniuses into fools.
Where is the crusader with waving sword,
Coming to rescue all his oppressed brothers?
The viking with its axe, without a lord,
Invoking fear within the heart of others?
    Although since birth a foe of my ideal,
    Disappointment and mourning's what I feel.
Ceyhun Mahi Jun 27
We are the People of the Heart, the kings,
Without the crown, the throne and golden rings.

The morning-bird may call its mate at dawn,
I hear something different when it sings.

The world mourned the summer, but I have felt
The rest of falls, the madness of springs.

Tomorrow is still far away from us,
Today's today, let us see what it brings.

From north to west, from east to west each time,
O world, you pulled me with your locks as strings.

Imprisoned in the garden of illusions,
I picked the flower-leaves and made my wings.

I am Mahi, the poet who saw meanings,
Since times immemorial, in many things.
Ceyhun Mahi Jun 15
I see a rosy sunset-view,
Turning slowly to night, so blue.
Day-sounds turn into that of Night,
Sunlight replaced by neon-light.
In the air there is a summer-breeze,
Unlocking many memories.
Everywhere I look, I see smiles,
People dressed in different styles.
Beautiful faces on bright screens,
Displaying stars, products and scenes.
I stare into the mist of love,
To the glowing faces above.
I hear the echoes of crowds,
Passing by like some languid clowds.
I walk around within these places,
And encountering many faces.
Someone is sunken in their phone,
Smiling, while standing all alone.
I see the city's blood; racing cars,
Shooting off like glittering stars.
So many people meet and greet,
On every corner of this street.
There is no time to say hello,
While everyone is quick to go.
Would one of them have time for me?
And are their hearts open to see?
I guess not; let's keep them in my dreams,
Where they're adorned with silver-gleams.
It does not really matter much;
I can see the trace of their touch.
Ceyhun Mahi May 1
Milton! your youthful strife with fickle time,
Expressed with reason and an ancient rhyme,
Is something I endure at twenty-three,
Wishing much more than what I'm meant to be.
Your time was different, when art had class,
When Thought had its respect among the mass.
I know that life is short but fine, when skilled
To see past the dread of living, and ill-willed.
I know that faith is quick to end, as death
Is quick to come – just only with one breath.
And though I'm ignorant of many ways,
I am much wise, because I know my place.
This quantity of wisdom was not a lot
For you, but much for me – yes – this aware Thought.
It was at this age that I had compiled all my poems from my teenage years into a single book, and began a new collection of poems, written in my twenties. I believe beginning this arrangement with this poem, some rhymed couplets, addressing John Milton, the great English poet, who also had written verses on becoming twenty-three, is a meaningful one.

''How soon hath Time the subtle thief of youth
Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.''

– John Milton
Ceyhun Mahi Apr 4
I was so sad, a stagnant mood of dread,
And advice from others could only tire.
A state between living and being dead,
Was at those moments by only desire.
It was a time of brooding and much thought,
So that my feelings were clouded like rays,
No matter what I did – I just could not
Feel like myself, like in older days.
Let the spring of the past come back again;
The tulip's blooming, and her stem is steady,
Along the breeze of dawn, its healthy rain –
But most importantly, my heart is ready.
    I realized, that in the very end,
    My holy patience was my only friend.
Ceyhun Mahi Mar 7
Someone said: ''they're like butterflies at day,
And slowly in the night they fly away.''

A time to bloom for them's the time of night,
When visiting, they do adorn the sight.

To where, to who and how – we do not know,
Except some, who are involved in their show.

With swaying moves and dancing fans they swing,
Accompanied by ancient songs they sing.

Their fan is blooming, fair as the summer-flowers,
Crafted in many dedicated hours.
Ceyhun Mahi Feb 24
I speak with poets old and almost ancient,
Pressing their books against my burning chest,
Trying to stay with their verses patient,
Understood by few, complex to the rest.
I read the sonnets of the lovestruck Bard,
In little books who're filled with lofty meanings,
Finding it sometimes easy, and sometimes hard
To really understand 'bout what he sings.
My colored imagination is filled
With worlds unknown to windows of souls,
Right there, only with sweet tenderness build,
Making it easier to reach my goals,
    I travel, see and float with poetry,
    To gates of other worlds, while she's my key.
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