অনুকবিতা

Everyone has headed home.

After a long while, you find yourself here, so near, glowing like a firefly in the dim evening, weighed down by the burden of this body, in exhaustion, decline, descent, and rejection;

In this enchanting city brimming with familiar dreams, you are the unforgettable essence...

Poetry is not always born on paper. Sometimes it hangs in the air, sometimes it enters someone's eyes. Sometimes it silently wanders from house to house, when night falls, without our knowledge. Poetry is born from within those cracks, the empty cracks that exist outside of language. 

I never wanted so many roses in my life, 

I wanted-

Let a rose or two bloom in the garden surrounded by the sun, surrounded by tin fences, with soft thorns, in a nest surrounded by the calm afternoon...

I wanted-

Let a sparrow or two come, let the morning dew wet the petals, in the crowd of leaves filled with branches...

The old man who sells tea on a street corner pours his sixty-year history of loneliness into twenty-five cups every day.

Do you pay for it?

Do you pay the price for a stranger's face?

In the eyes of a street dog-

his invisible respect for you,

do you know the cost of this silent devotion?

Apart from tailor's measurements, house rent, jobs - what else do you pay for?

Poetry means - where one person ends, another begins.

Poetry is a prayer for birth.

Poetry sits between the end of breath and the cessation of life.

Sitting there, he writes the poet himself.