poem

THE OLD MAN’S TEARS

Once upon a time I had watched a play somewhere
There was a curled old man in that play
Wearing ragged clothes
Having meaningless glance in his eyes
Being too old, having no energy left, and being deserted,
Left alone, having lived nothing

His tears had neither stopped nor finished
He had so much trouble that hadn’t ever finished
Breathing was his profit, living was his only ambition
Having played the greatest tragedy in the world
On the life stage without curtains
He had passed on, do you have a clue?
WHY FALLING IN LOVE WİTHOUT BEING LOVED?

If eyes see, heart likes and falls in love
The passion to meet lights fire
Reality and dream get mixed into each other
One moment comes and arched eyebrows are frowned.

He had loved a lot of beautiful ones without being loved
He knows that there is no remedy for this trouble
The lover also bears the trouble
Why falling in love without being loved?

Days full of hope and expectation
Passed with happiness and grief
We had tried hard but too hard
But couldn’t answer the riddle called love.
 

THE KANGAROO WITHOUT ITS CHILD

A kangaroo hadn’t been able to have a baby
It had adopted a rabbit and had put it into its bag
The kangaroo had been happy and so had the rabbit
But the others had been angry so,

They had made a plan to get rid of the rabbit
They had kidnapped the rabbit while sleeping
The kangaroo had seen her empty bag when she had woken up
She had been shocked and sorry

And had made an arrangement with the poisonous snake
In the bag had been the snake and the kangaroo among the others
Being afraid of the snake the others had given the rabbit back
And they had said that that was a plan in a plan.


My Tree

I wouldn't love you this much
If there was another tree besides you
In our neighborhood.
But if you
Knew how to play slide
With us
I would love you more.

My beautiful tree!
When you wither
I hope
We will have moved to another neighborhood.

 

Winter is Over

"I've studied the art of farewell,"
specialized in exile.
I've learnt how a boat puts out from port.
Learnt the bitterness of a train whistle.

For years I lived on letters, lived
on smuggled tobacco, banned
publications. I've not forgotten a thing.
Nothing. Ever.

In the icy loneliness of the steppes
the sails at sea were what I missed the most.
There were no mountains, no mountains:
I leant back on the winds.

Was I out of my mind? A prisoner, say,
in the heart of darkness?
The blood dried -
and I was a rose, blown into flower.