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Time could be hesitant
But illusion is not
Time can fly
But an illusion can turn
Fading in illusion,
I thought I was in prison
When my second was your hour
The mystery of an underworld tought me
To fly in time
For what a real illusion
Is in there...
11:01 p.m. words!
A foggy sky is called smoky,
A shooting star brings us hope
A selenophilia could be a imaginary narrative
For once we dreamt of what is real,
yet not aware
That all is a dream!
What's your dream?
"Poetry can't lie",I knew this;
Girls crying,fighting,broken
Peolpe genesided
They were in danger,in dilemma,they had no solid identity,
They were just blamed
I don't know why?
Can I ask for a piece of justice?
Girls were stolen for fraud,
Mentally were abused
That feeling numb is being wided in crowd

A solution
Was presumably faded
But hoped
We all in yatcht,looking for a desert,
Shall I ask for one thing?
Breathing the fog of crimes,
Is there any motive left to live?
Girls,of course have their voices
The truth is saviour
Is not adequate
To burn out the fake fire!
Neden böyle hizli davranmk gerektir?Bir kere yaşayacağız.
Biraz zor düşünerek,
Kabul etmek,
Zorlüklari yikar!
How do you think to write in Turkish?
The multitude

The lapsed multitude

Fallen, weakened and languid

Under the burden of their bodies

Kept going from one peregrination to another one

And the painful desire of crime

Swelled in their hands

Sometimes a spark

A small spark

Decomposed this society by interior

The men tore each other’s throats with knives

And in a bed of blood, violated premature girls

They were the drowned in their horrors

And the frightening sense of crimination

Had paralyzed their blind and naïve souls

During the rites of hanging a man

To the gallows-tree

When the strangling cord

Threw out the convulsive eyes of a condemned one

They sank in themselves

A by a lascivious illusion

Their tired old nerves

Had a twitch of pain

But always one could see

These small criminals

Standing at the corners of squares

Fixing their eyes

On the continuous fall of water-jets

Perhaps still behind their crushed eyes

In the profoundness of coagulation

A half-alive thing had remained

Which wanted with its strife without energy

To believe in the cleanness of songs of waters

Perhaps, but what an unending void!

The sun had died

And nobody knew that the name of that sad pigeon

Which escaped from the hearts is: Belief.

Ah prisoner voice

Whether the glory of your despair

Will never burrow

From one part of this abominable night

                                                       to the light ?

Ah prisoner voice

Ah the last voice of voices…
Some part of the poem!
How should I suppose I'm fine,
When my land is on fire,
When beliefs got a worth than humanity
When ethics are crushed by a shot gun!
When anger,anxiety,suicide are being a normal thing,
How should I suppose I'm fine,
When the cheapest things got a worth,
How should I suppose everything is okay,
And I'm pretending I'm happy to be silent,
When everyone works for their own source,
Does something real exist?
Isn't something getting progressively worse?
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