Bunk Beds Are Dumb, Duvets Are Hell's Track

Bunk beds are dumb, duvets are hell's track,
Wasn't it the Maiden's Tower, which made our essences poets,
Çalimli Hagia Sophia, cartel Sultanahmet,
In front of us while looking at Leyla like crazy.

Üsküdar, if not the capital of love, what was it?
Incessant, futile, the thunder of my liver,
May my eyelids suffer your fossil amber eyes,
Without breaking the ancient rosary thread of the ancient homeland,
And at least your dream,
Admire our dear homes.

Near the dark waters as the lamps ignite in solitude,
However, a bagel was enough for wonderful happy flights.
On her crop as if she were tearing her heart apart,
Maple seagulls kissing with bites of life in their palms.

You would be silent, even silence suddenly the anthems would sound,
The deadly coolness of the dawn is on the orphan Gulhane benches,
Here is a miserable man whose pillow is newsprint,
There, a woman chilling from the heat accompanied by Chinese tea,
After the restless undulating docks of the Bosphorus,
Chills as he shot himself to the cliffs.

Dolphins caught in the web of existence in the sea of absence,
With the determination to live while fluttering in the coffin of borders,
By scorching and scorching the rib folds with your hands,
The desire to break himself is in the range of bird chirping.

The humpbacks that force the dam into wings,
But autumn was enough for the oval pearls of her hair,
Those cloves of spices attached with the intention of a clasp,
As I see children with sparrows on their branches,
Young executioners who were plucked from their branches are in the mind of the heart.

Sinkholes, a feast of deep wounds in sheep,
Cries like a smile in those sad bowers,
To my soul, dear to my soul; dear to my soul,
Big skein of yarn.

From the time of Kalû/Bala to the hour of judgment,
Focus on the perfect arts of Your Most Beloved Excellency,
The profession of love requires keeping their satellites on,
Until the eternity of the endless days of your eternal existence.

To be the glowing foams of the throat in the yellowed sun dance,
Because it is not the mortar of every horizon, but in the land of spirits,
For the sake of running ships by land—a Lover.