His poems smell like the smoke of a burning window pane not like the perfume that clings to
a woman's sleeve.

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On the walls of my heart, while the memories of others hang like- curtains, calendars and clocks, Your memory still hangs like my mother's "Pheran" in there.

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only if the knocking sound on my door, in the middle
of the nights was produced by the silver of your
bangles, jaana and not by the iron of their guns,

how beautiful the nights in my homeland would
have been.

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What terrifies my heart more than the sound of sirens is the sound
of your footsteps when you walk away from me, my love.

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For God's sake, someone please come and take my eyes,
And hang them to her neighbour's window
that faces her house.

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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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