The Pen Wrote Itself That This Era Is Over

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The Pen Wrote Itself That This Era Is Over

The pen wrote itself that this era is over,
Unable to answer himself with a few questions,
It ended its meaning and renewed its understanding.
Meaning defeated first, defeated first.

My sadness sits on my bed at night,
Rest until I come,
It gives a new meaning to itself,
And me,
I question all nonsense,
My sadness.

In how many cycles will I end myself?
Every time is missing my sleep, if you understand,
If I were to open one more cycle, at night on the thorn,
If you understand that the rose bleeds, death is born, the child dies...

Understand, understand all my tiredness,
These are the questions I've been asking myself,
And -how many more, one more cycle ends with interrogative pronoun?

My end;
An hour and sixteen minutes is when I cut myself in half!
How many more?
An hour and sixteen minutes can separate me from myself?

The limit of the lover is the pit of tears, my father used to say,
Just as you teach me my limits,
I used to hang on to what my father said,
Troubles make sense of the body of the heart,
And it multiplies the sadness in its language.

I am tired...
I'm breaking all my limits, father,
My sadness is heavy,
And making love kills the butterfly in me...
Every word, every word, born of sexual copulation,
They are killers of butterflies.

In fact, making love is also a bit of a killer of your joy,
A kiss throws itself off your roof!
Get your lips chapped.

O father,
My sadness is as short as my life,
As hasty as my love,
As novice as I am,
Dad... dad is just as tired as you are.

My sadness,
I promise you my tears.
Make me cry, let me pour out softly,
I float, I make no sound,
Tears are sweat poured on my lips at night,
Every sweat seeks its own place,
Your words that I murdered.

My sadness,
Understand, kissing me is a revolution from my lips,
When hugged, all the birds hang themselves from the roof,
The rose is bleeding, my death is still in swaddling,
It kills your childhood.
Reformism on its axis of lethargy,
He is after the revolution as much as you.

My childhood is the vein that my pains crack,
Sometimes blood doesn't circulate through my veins,
Within the framework of radical decisions!
My heart flaps all its wings,
Roses just end in my eyes,
Oh I...
Don't I know that no thorn in your tears,
Don't I know from the bleeding hands of your sadness?

I am the wound of all conquests,
It bleeds from all wounds,
I infiltrate poems from all pains,
All lives are blind on my tongue,
Your tears always go through a slaughter,
All shores are my father's stepchildren.

My tear: The only tenant of your sky,
Shoot myself ashore!
At night, my tears become rebellious on my lips unless I sweat,
Ropeless whipping boy sucks my blood on my lip,
He hits the slap on my father's sagging mouth.

O father,
I conquered your tears at last,
The dirty rusty banner just stands on the roof of your forehead!
I'm running your anger step by step,
My every step is suicidal,
If I take a step forward, my joy will die in my crop.

I conquered your tears at last,
O father...
Another era is over,
I take my sadness and sit it on my bed,
I just add meaning, in my sadness,
All night,
I rest...

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Kayıt Tarihi : 24.3.2023 07:52:00
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