come and tell me
about your barbed wires,
when did you open
the gates of my soul
and come in?
i did not notice.
where did you come from, traveler,
where are you going?
even if,
in these streets,
you search for
the scent of your homeland,
what you will find
is the smell
of cinnamon cake
the scent of cinnamon cake
passes beyond my barbed wires.
my soul
has a fruit garden
waiting for you.
if you cross
the barbed wires,
perhaps
this is your magic.
perhaps
my hands
are the magic itself
come and tell me
where did you come from?
where is the journey taking you?
if i baked you
a cinnamon cake,
would you like it?
would you stay beside me,
for half o road,
for as long as half of life?
perhaps
you would forget
the place you came from
if i promised you
a garden of paradise,
perhaps
we could adorn
my garden
with a bouquet of flowers
from the place
you came from.
perhaps
we would let wine
flow trough the rivers
its colour
blood-red
perhaps
we would make promises
so that we would not die,
so that we would not leave this life
so that we would never
leave our paradise.
we would make a pact
with god.
we would promise him
not to let him kill us,
and never
to let him separate us.
for lifetimes upon lifetimes,
we would accept
being born again,
just to experience
the pleasure
of finding you again
in every life.
ı accept
not dying.
and
you do too
ı know
23.09.2026 - çarşamba
17.56 - istanbul
