Scribbler of literary stories & hopeless poetry..
I am a bandit. Campfires are my light, Stones are my pillows, And my blanket.. The stars above. On these mountains,
By Ahmet F. Ilhan3 years ago in Poets
The slayer retires and turns to gardening; A miser may spend a fortune on her; The infidel falls on his knees, Then prays to God,
Before every wrongdoing, Before every bad deed, And every sin, Some words are said In terrible justification - 'I've done the world a favour,'
Not many could say, But I am fond of my own fate.. I will live quick And die young; I may not see, even then, too clearly;
I've left my last kiss on your cheeks; That, too, will soon dry, And, Just as with your soul last night, It'll fly.. And from now on,
As if you were the running waters - Gleaming with warmth during Spring, Cold and white-piled in Winter - I adore all forms of you,
As if she were this poet's lost pen, For whom I've foraged since early morning - In desperate attempts, Lest I forget, What was to be said -
I've not known many truths.. Everything I've heard, Or sometimes even said, Were the truths of others, And I, A mere crank-toy.
I'm tired, friend, Tired beyond measure; I shall repose for a thousand years, Not for rest But brief composure, Because in the moment
Dear, I am not sewn Into this flesh of mine; I am many things in life. I am many things in life.. Sometimes, a quiet wind,
My friend, my love, Never has there been a life, Much fulfilled with much delight, And absent of sorrow. Life is sorrowful -