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

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