If she Promises to wipe it's tears with her scraf, even a desert would cry out a thousand seas.

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Our true history lies in the literature of our lanes

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The ink in my poetry smells half like Vincent's paint and half like her nail polish.

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Not even Autumn would dare to wither the flowers she sticks in my hair.

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My poems bloom in Autumn and wither in spring- that's it.

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Had people sent me flowers everytime i died
in your memory,

Every spring would have been deserted and all the flowers would be lying over my tombstone.

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My Noor, how do i metaphorize the beauty of
your eyes in my poems,

for metaphors in my land are born out of the exploading shells of grenades not the petals of flowers.

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They say, Empty houses make no homes, one's true home lies where one's family members are at,

Does'nt that mean, the graveyards are true homes of most people in my homeland?

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Perhaps, i am the other half of Kafka's incomplete books

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My lady, throw your lipstick to hell, come dip your finger in my inkpot and beautify your lips with my ink.

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