Poems

The Speaking Hour

Your image
Here
Fluttering like a stolen shirt
And I am between your hands
A painting that had not been completed yet
The painter died on his way to me

Behind all these years
I grow like the grass after a storm 

I am grapes of mistakes
And the grape tree
We have not squeezed enough for the nights
Evenings have forgotten their eyelashes
The lanterns have dangled their ropes for darkness
And the knot that tied us is an old tree
We warm ourselves up with wood, which is insufficient 
For two bodies
 
I am grapes of mistakes
And you fill me up as blood does
The new wound
The mirror is behind you
And you comb your hair
In the whiteness of my eyes
So I see the imprints of my calls on your back
And darkness around us is a white eagle
Had forgotten an egg on my windowsill

Like a clock hanged on the horizon
When I looked at you
I realised how much late I was
And when my finger were wet to the first time,
In your navel
My head had completed a full circle
It did not part 
You were my neck

My fingers had made kites
I have blown my own hands
A wind had been blown
I am the hunter of quercus suber 
In the sea of nights
I have drank for a long time
No one returned after me
Except floating

Choose the winter
And rain is on me
Pour a glass for me
And draw your lips
We almost got drunk 
We have a night in front of us
Many paint the morning
On our backs

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