Let's go to Sabrina's gym,
When city lights are bright,
At there, who're never dim,
At the peak of the night.

Let's see the starry skies,
While trainers battle hard,
With fire in their eyes,
Desires in their hearts.

Some shady figures – oh!
Dressed in black, I see,
Around the city and Silph-co,
Who might they be?

Chorus:

Let's go to Saffron City!
Where magic does happen,
Along this happy ditty,
With hope, and faith and passion!

1

I was inspired by a lovely queen,
Who granted my mind a beautiful scene.
I found this picture in the rose-garden,
This sight disturbed my gaze, without a pardon:
The grayish, flowing smoke is like a curtain,
Who might be behind it? It is uncertain.
It hides perhaps the face of a beauty,
With misty clouds of locks, swinging with glee.

There is a cigarette within the rose!
The gentle breezes carry its thick smoke.
Who put that cigarette who burns at there?
It's strange, but beauty makes it look so fair;
It's in balance to my adoring eyes;
Nature who is pure meets with smoky sighs.

But what about that rose, who is embraced
By smoke? Those leaves have sorrow's taste.
To reflect upon this, that is my task,
So with curiosity I ask:
Why so sad? Your dewy tears are like silver,
How can you be so sad? I am your lover.
Why so sad, dainty flower of the fresh spring?
You are the queen; the nightingale the king.
You are the lip who does talk to my muse!
You are the pink; the rosy 'gainst the blues.
You are the cup with the wine of my love,
Who goes around with the sign of my love.
Your hue appears upon the face of beauty –
Those glows upon your face – they are so rosy!
Some faces look like roses, who don't harden,
As a matter of fact, like fine rose-gardens.
With your brilliant glows they do compare
The beauties of mankind, who're kind and fair.
Your lovely imagery they did overuse
But oh, alas; I am in love with you,
So, it's hard for me to refrain 'bout roses,
That is what my poetic soul proposes.

2: Autumn and Winter

Now let´s turn our attention to the winter
And autumn, where icy breezes saunter.

O beautiful rose, you wait and you wait,
Till this garden becomes a sunny state.
Your stem does wait patiently, asleep,
The sun won't help that time; your slumber's deep.
The rosebud-lips do open up much slower,
Like each and every fresh and fragrant flower.

And that's the way of fleeting, pretty nature,
It can dispirit, it can enrapture.

3: On the Holy Prophet, peace be upon him

I know a Friend, very dear to my soul,
That Rose – without a crime my heart he stole.
With love, to him this piece I dedicate,
The pearly Rose who's in the purest state:
I wish I had rose-leaves to write upon,
To show, to proof to him; for him my love.
So that marks of my writing will release
The scent who lies within the fragrant rose.
While dancing in the air, I will blow it
Towards his direction, from me: a poet.
A poet who loves the rose and loves him,
And loves mankind and more within this dream.

So many examples of charm you'll find,
So many questions in my youthful mind.
If faces were the essence of the soul,
Then pretty ones would always have been kind.

One sees the moon, shedding a tear they must,
Another sees her and gets blind in lust.

How easy do those small birds fly,
Over the things which make us cry,
And feel like the greatest burdens,
In the depths and peaks of the sky.

O Pen, write it all down before it leaves,
It's rude not to save what the heart receives.

They'll serve some cookies, serve some tea,
Enough for both of you and me,
Around the times of day and night,
So fresh, so warm, so nice and free.

Chorus:

O take a break at this cafe,
When it is night, when it is day.

Line of Faith in the Red Sea divides us,
Yet we both believe the same Line guides us.

My brother was confused when he saw me,
I take it that the veil of names hides us.

If reaching the high skies stands for success,
Then it is the emptiness that prides us.

You won't sight a clue in darkness and light,
There's no finding Him while He asides us.

Hey Mahvî, wide vision like horizons;
There is much more going on besides us.

My words are neither dark nor bright;
No lands of ice under the night,
Nor warm rose-gardens dawned with light,
Pastel hues and tones are their sight.

Deep at the tender dawn, when stars were fading,
A maiden came to me, covered in light,
Looked at me with her black eyes, while persuading
Me to do something heavenly and bright.

It was something specific, and disciplined,
I did not know, although I tried to think,
But because of sleep I was limited,
Becoming ignorant with every blink.

She said to me: ''You are in danger, youth.''
I said: ''I see no danger in my bed.''
She said again: ''the fact is far from truth.''
I took it serious, stood up and said:

''Maiden, who're you?'' she said: ''I am Namaz,
Observe me well my friend, and you may pass.''

It's a rose-garden of cries and pain here,
Yet for roses to bloom you need rain here.

The songs of sadness and madness are too weak,
Compared to this feeling they're too sane here.

Beauty lies in eyes of the beholder,
So this may be gold or an ink-stain here.

Thank God for poetry! There are no rules.
Write this in prose, and you'll be insane here!

O Mâhî this sad-talk is not the way;
Count blessings, there's no time to complain here!

The first night of 2017,
Hearing some of Gary Burton's tango,
Reminiscing of 2016,
Shaping the perfect atmosphere of night,
Accompanied by this candle who's bright,
Flickering because of the music's vibe,
While seeing me reminisce, describe.

There, I see the silhouette of a man,
Who's constricted in bandages and pain,
By misfortune of fate was overran,
While only embraced by the murky rain.
Once, his life was adorned with gleaming light,
Accompanied by his treasure and muse,
Who helped him with success throughout the night,
But is now for the golden-world no use.
He strolls the streets in utter confusion,
Something he was the master over once,
But this time he fell for that illusion
Who before provided luxuriance.
  Once the master-magician of the sweet,
  And now a hopeless madman on the street.

My heart and eyes are so connected closely,
When we're apart, the two of us are lonely.
If others touched her beauty in the night,
It all would have been an illusion only.

İnsanlarda bir adettir tebessüm,
Dar zamanlarda kuvvettir tebessüm.

Yakut dudaklar ile akşam üstü,
Şüpheli yerde rüşvettir tebessüm.

Taze taze bahar zamanlarda ki,
Sevenlere işarettir tebessüm.

Dediler ki hep; bir dilsiz dil vardır,
O dilsiz dilde evettir tebessüm.

Tanıdıklara ve yabancılara,
Ey Mâhî deme: "zahmettir tebessüm".

A little bit of Byron lies in me,
A brooding young man with morbid despair,
Whose moods switch so quick, like of the vast sea,
While I stand beside the rocks, winds through my hair.

A bit of Shelley flows inside my pen,
A burning rebel in my father's land,
Not understood or felt by common men,
Where ultimate ideals I do demand.

A lot of Keats sings and dances in me,
Summer airs, nightingales, everything old,
Escaping my pain on wings of poesy,
As he, my broken bard-brother has told.

I read and read and found myself in all,
And so did find myself through my heart's call.

We are a mess! But a beautiful mess.
And at times an unbelievable mess,
Both in our wonders and in our failures.
O Mankind is such a wonderful mess!

Drinkers of devilish drinks at times of night,
Are drinking nightly, behind bars imprisoned.

This summer air carrying sweet perfumes,
Of the youths and lasses,
Coming off the elaborate costumes,
Of new fashion's masses.

The fair views are waiting to be captured,
Artist minds enraptured,
Into the bright spring  each camera zooms,
With transparent glasses.

All this curious and lovely asking,
A romantic setting,
Leading to melancholic, soothing glooms,
Who’re put in strange classes.

One glance was stretched into a reverie,
With bliss in memory,
Like sunbeams through thin curtains in dark rooms,
And slowly it passes.

Here summery embroidery's read,
Mâhî's line is his thread,
And his imagination is what blooms,
Pages are canvases.

There comes Winter's cold roar,
And makes the ringlets soar
All in the icy air,
Caressing all the hair.
Embraced by a warm coat,
Protecting a cold throat,
The air is veiled by mist,
And the bright sun is missed.
How beautiful is this view!
How beautiful are you!

She is a moon upon the nights of cities,
Who glows and gives the gleamy lights of cities.
The 8-bit sounds do sing and neon-kanji
Is written, showing pretty sights of cities.

The roses bloom upon the grounds of spring,
So fresh and fair they glow as fragrant faces,
So nice and neatly, never giving up
The hope who's fueled by the rays of the sun.

The beams are bright like a beautiful brow,
They did wait after rains upon the day,
Where clouds would leave the lovely sun alone,
And conquer then with little might again.

No one has or will have a Light like his,
He, who was sent as a Mercy and bliss.

One man, yet much uncountable blessings,
Clueless how to repay for all of this.

I do envy those who have seen his face,
To times I have not seen I do reminisce.

We still have yet not seen his bright being.
Until that Day, it is the rose we miss.

Mâhî lacks rhymes to continue this praise,
That Day will show how luminous he is.

Upon the cheek I see the glow of love,
How then could it present the woe of love?

A scented ringlet flows around the ears,
So my dreamy eyes see the flow of love.

With pearly gleams and some roseate hues,
Your fine gallery is a show of love.

To make me toss and turn with doubting feelings,
To not think about me, that's low of love.

With all its glamour, splendor and its grace,
If you can, make us a photo of love.

The synthy music plays; a world does bloom,
The rapper spits some rhymes; a flow of love.

Mâhî's a poet, he did write 'bout love:
''Happiness, that's what I do know of love.'''

We fight and seperate when life's a bore;
There is an emptiness within our core.
It is as if our pain is sweeter when
We're young – it doesn't suit us anymore.

The harshness of mental illness,
Who's the soul's hidden polisher,
And the soul's hidden nourisher,
Rewards with Faith and steadiness.

Before my eyes I see a dreamy sight:
Her sleepy look does glaze over the days,
As olden vintage clothing of her sways,
Absent of strength, away from lively might.
Her autumn tresses hide her face who's bright,
Aglow surrounded by the daily rays
Who put her, except the rest, in a haze
Like a murky, filmy and misty night.

Who she might be, I do not know, alas,
She's distant from my sight, like she's to me,
But still this filmy tale I did narrate,
About a hazy mood, about a lass,
Who did inspire me. Now I hope she
Will find a bright, soothing, yet lively state.

You say: 'Envy' and I say: 'give them more!
Give them much more than they had before!'

Silver drops bestow a calm upon me;
Autumn has come, and each thing goes slowly.

Let those raindrops succumb to the World's lips,
So the World's noise will shut up finally!

Don't blame the jewel for unpolished shapes,
Blame her wicked and rich lapidary.

A face that shines bright but who is no star,
Has too darkness, who's illusionary.

Autumn arrived and flocks of cranes leave us,
While Ruyâ'î rests in his reverie.

I know for sure
That if the pretty poet had a life
So long as parrots,
This collection of poetry,
So small compared to others,
Would have been filled with soothing dreams,
Scented with the smell of sweet flowers
Growing in the wide meadows,
Where slender nymphs do live
And little nightingales,
Singing great songs.

A small drop squeezed out of autumn leaves
gives another flowing spring.

At last, a glow upon her face! It shined
More brightly than at other times I viewed
That rosy figure with that dreaming mind,
Now it is at last with happiness hued.
A rose across her hair did hold a show,
Of rosy stories, bright and nice of style,
Who's presenting the eyes glamour and glow,
All hidden in a lovely, modest smile.
So, I can feel an emotion so real,
Who's through her eyes revealing the whole thing:
The pleasure who's behind the coldness, she'll
With dispirited vibes and glances bring.
  I did not know that glee could be concealed,
  And thought that it only was through smiles revealed.

At this misty morning scene,
Traces of winter were seen:
The trees were embraced by mist,
A lovely sight I had missed,
Adorned with dew were the leaves,
Seeing how the morning leaves.

Like the whole world through love I write,
To sight, to smell, to love I write.
All these words are here like a couple,
Oh drunken heart; you love, I write.

Throughout my life I have become more stronger,
Becoming twenty-three, it took me longer.
How great it would have been, with all this wisdom,
If I would only be some four years younger.

''O streets of shining Tokyo, at night
You do become a lovely masquerade,
In different kinds of shades covered in light,
Until the times comes when the colors fade
Away into the magnificent dawn,
Who smears the sleep upon the nightly eyes,
And fills the lips and mouths with a deep yawn,
Calling the sun, its golden rays and rise.
You blow to me melancholy who is
Away from happiness, between a sorrow,
Like an inevitable parting kiss,
Who's filled with lovely love and woeful woe.
  Because to you I cannot turn my face
  Away, I keep on walking on your ways.''

The liar did say every kind of thing,
Sugar-coated talks, drunk it made the king.

Between the winter, between the autumn,
I saw the lovely summer and the spring.

Between the mockers, between the rulers,
At that gathering, a sweet voice did sing.

It is no love or lust; it's admiration,
For beauty and air a person does bring.

The bird of summer sings, teaches this place,
And Mâhî's near it; he's under its wing.

The singer takes her seat,
In the lifeless and empty room
All alone in silence,
Where the dull gray walls spread the gloom.

Her lips hold rosewater,
And prepare calmly to bestow
Rain upon these wastelands,
To turn it into a meadow.

As the keys are fondled
By fingers like the beams of the moon,
The strings begin to hum
A soothing and sonorous tune.

In chimes of ecstasy,
She narrates the soul's foreign tale,
And releases freely
From out her soul the nightingale.

At night the mind's at rest,
While away from the rest.

I think you are the only one,
    Who’s normal in my busy feed.
In crowds, my affection you’ve won,
    And are the one who I do need.

They post those pretty, prideful pics,
    While you just share so modestly,
Upon a day from one to six
    Pictures who are so glittery.

You have some friends who post like you,
    Dainty with their beautiful styles,
With pastel pink and pastel blue,
    Evoking love, evoking smiles.

Thank you, my distant star-like friend,
    Who I know only through my phone,
This with my peace to you I send,
    While I do stay to you unknown!

Stay whoever you are I plead,
Those charms, that is what I do need.
But if you have to grow for life,
Just don't forget your fragile seed.

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.

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.

Walks at
nocturnal times
in the light of lampposts
trough out the beautiful city
to chill.

Where does the canvas lie,
What does the paint conceal,
While deceiving my eye,
Swapping the false and real?

That harem doors veil jewels I'm aware tonight,
But still I'll decide not to visit there tonight.

The nightingale lost his way in the rose garden,
A red mist descended upon the blue air tonight.

I don't approach it neither do I forget it,
Like a lonely widow's ring of despair, tonight.

Desire would go like cinnamon mist at dawn,
To take a sip from it I will not care tonight.

A candle's flame can be turned off by sorrow's breeze,
Yet that breeze gives incense a source to flare tonight.

Two glances are to be considered forbidden,
So I'll delay one glance into a stare tonight.

O Gihon, be as lucid in dreams as in verse,
And write a dream and avoid a nightmare tonight!

A tune of future funk does play,
Perhaps from a dreamy city.
A soft, a smooth voice does narrate,
Perhaps bout a gleamy city.

I do hear stories about much:
Before my eyes I see the lanes,
The cute couples walking around,
The neon-lights and falling rains.

So much change in four years, it seems so strange,
But I'm still me, and that will never change.

Night and day I see your face at stores;
A famous one, seen in different shapes,
That does express life, which each fan adores,
Adventures with downfalls and escapes.
Like stars of olden days, in black and white,
In every scene you shine with emotions,
Each smile, each tear a different sight,
Praised for many philosophical notions.
Oh, and my teenage years were filled with you,
Right and left I would see you for a while,
Till I would suddenly find someone new,
Making me feel safe with a lonely smile.
Amongst the loved ones you were then, O star,
Nonstop, while I was always apart so far.

The pink waves of the sea,
Under the afternoon sun,
Do come and go
As memories,
So softly.

The rosy sands,
So thin and tender,
Do observe the flow of them,
As this poem does.