If you’re in front of your eyes, you’ll still be my life and my hand. My spring summers, my non-seasons. Every day, the mourning, the tears, all the pieces, every step. In the spring of my life, the pain that I walked while I was in my skin, the roads that I took, every moment of my suffering, whether you were with me or not, the sadness that you gave me, but the mind is left with the heartache. Like a love that can’t be left behind while there’s a chance or a rosary. At every step, they stab the heartache to the mth, not to the wound, but to bleed. If you say so, tell me who opened my skin. I’m so desperate, I feel so helpless, that if you spill water, I’m burned to the wound, every moment.
If your conscience is relaxed, ask you, Yaradana, he put stones under his chest instead of a heart. The sight of the eye that does not leak, even if you are not there, it is my strength. He’s always learned to live with pain, my body, no burden, no more love, I like it alone. If you are a Leyla, you will not find it in my eyes. Do you want to fix it, or you can open it, or you’ll be more deeply with the dagger in your hand. I loved you without you, and leave me alone with my love for your absence.
SÖZDÜŞÜM 