Life is circular, even for those untouched by the realms
of faith or spirituality— every moment secular. Let us exalt
the fervour of true commitment, warn the youth against the
allure of materialism — my attempts of such were a mere tip
of advice, too blunt for those who didn’t own sharpeners.

I see of the stillness and shadows, that leaves drift silently,
nameless in the breeze; they grow increasingly embarrassed as
they succumb to decay. Yet, from the **** talk of human chatter,
the refuse of their speech can still be turned into the fertile ground
from which life may sprout. Even as the curtains descend on the
grand performance, the essence of existence continues to unfold
in the shadows, a narrative the world may never truly grasp.

Close your eyes and let your heart sketch the tableau—fold your
arms to spare the world further anguish; as the youth, armed with
lessons from their screens, race onward. They'll drive forever, though
forever is not a human art — lovers whisper, “I’ll love you forever,”
yet the cracks remain of one’s broken heart.

Let us pay tribute to the hour’s accord; strike a chord like a pact—
though not one forged in Lucifer’s handshake, bartering your soul
for a fleeting piece of existence in this world. Raise your sword,
sun-kissed and gleaming—this pen that can colour the world in
vibrant hues, a dream so vivid, yet never forget the wildness of
this realm; humanity resembles a chaotic zoo.

Non é l'istruzione
Non sono gli oggetti
A fare un uomo,
Se stesso.

É come vive l'ora,
Cosa fa con gli altri;
Ció che condivide;
L'intenzione con cui lo fa,
La voglia;

La personalitá, il mistero,
la magia, la forza...

Di amare ogni istante

Sitting by the black window staring outside, watching people go by.
Looking at the birds flying free and careless in the clouded sky.

Rain falling slowly, hitting the window with a whispering sound and I ask myself: 'Why?'
Like the raindrops falling slowly from the sky, teardrops start falling slowly from my eyes.

All those years lost as I was running to catch up with time, carrying my bleeding heart as I again tried.

Frustration, anger, sadness running through my veins as the last remaining feelings of love, compassion, affection die.

As I turn to see my face in the mirror, sad eyes turning cold as ice.
Numbness in my soul as the rain fades away sky-high...
                                                     ­                     
                                               *Ş.Ü

from East to West a pain without name, something inescapable, like the girdle of caskets, like a corpse. we struggle with what seems to be mostly an idea - the dimensions of the body, with the memory of the skin, with the history of contracting our bellies and puking our dreams. this world covered by layers, textiles, invisible armours, self-imposed absences. tears crushed by violence, by laughter, after all it was not that bad, they say. we carry so many tears that we are heavier than air, lighter than our tormentors, sillier than our dreams
crushed words, crushed voices, empty meanings for the unraveled selves. i write only a chronicle of this time devouring its fragments

eyes have ears, ears have eyes
on self-absorbed nights
the tree of knowledge murmurs in my veins
and poems rush through me with their wild letters
I chase them away with a smile
I am smitten beyond illusions, delusions and other demons
by a 4 am wave, you know
by a 5  am undeciphered dream
by a 6 am reverie, by a letting go
oh, what a sweet incomprehension,
life´s creativity,
your hands anticipating mine

The things that find
me on a Tuesday:

broken,
ugly,

like me,

like the mirror that
stares at me,

waiting for me
to wake up,

waiting for me to
fall asleep,

waiting for me
to smile,

waiting for me
to surrender.

And that I do,

for whatever
reasons,

to sell me a
certain rationality.

For meaning is now
a distant memory,

fading from
my thoughts.

I see nothing but
restless eyes,

and that is
all I see.

I’ve spent all my
feelings worrying
about everything,

and everything has
passed me by,

as autumn
passes the trees,

as summer
passes my youth.

And as winter
makes a home,

I find myself locking
the doors,

drawing the
curtains,

lest the light
falls into my
sorrows,

and the birds
sing to me,

telling me there’s
still a tomorrow

to suffer.

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