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I'm fine. Inspiration.

I will weave letters a lot.

I'm fine. Inspiration.


Part of my soul


You're lying in the next room with nausea

You ate too many sweets at our house.

As a child pampers, we too

Baklavas, profiteroles, eclairs

Chicken breasts, cauliflower, rice pudding

Kunefes, şambalar, Güllaç

What a tragedy I live now your stomach and your head

That you're spinning

In a room of a family of your new country who loved you very much

Bringing the mint lemon my mom made to your room

Realizing again how attached I am to you

i'm scared again

Already dear

I guess my

a little weird

even a little

Strange

even a little

ringing the rainbow

I always have some habits

there was.

Like love so much.

Excess of everything is harmful but; is not it?

Now I'm writing poetry again after a life break

But this time it's different from the others

It's not pain this time

illness or

not mourning

How well we lived with you from yesterday's full moon

time to this full moon

and another half month

the endless joy of being inseparable

(What is infinity anyway?)

(Isn't everything relative, including time?)

This interval when you stay in Iraq

When this hearth goes out, the fire cannot be fed in the wild cold.

I will write you many pages of letters like crazy women

I'm going to blow it up. More like sweets. (Excess of everything is not bad.)

I will weave letters a lot.

I'm fine. Inspiration.

'Cause knowing that I'll never have an ex in me

There is eternal peace

(What lover is loved like that anyway?)

I wish you weren't nauseous, boy with the most beautiful eyes in the world

Insidiously, if the liquid capitalism of the distant country does not eat away at your soul

Leaning on your scoliosis eight days a week

If you're not a waitress, you'd throw your double major in the drawer.

If I could save you from this life

Like Turkish movie main boys

(As if I could save myself)

(I am as arrogant as I am beautiful)

Lie, no one can save themselves either

unless we save each other.

Oh my beautiful eyes, oh my velvet ears

Your country does not understand you

of my hometown

Like he doesn't understand me.

Deniz Başar

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