أُريدُ جسدي وروحي سالميْنِ من شظيةِ الماضي

sometimes i don't know, which momentwhich cool gust of wind will come,and enchant metousling my hairand my heart, stirring...that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kissthe old wrench in my soulreminding me, all over againi miss you better in the rain.

Ey tâlih! Ölümden de beterdir bu karanlık;Ey aşk! O gönüller sana mâl oldular artık;Ey vuslat! O âşıkları efsûnuna râm et!Ey tatlı ve ûlvi gece! Yıllarca devâm et!

I drank the dregs of the wine to what remained of my health.I gave the last of my fervor for what remained of my hope.I cannot say for sure that this country is cursed,Honey flows with the milk, and the milk might curdle. Eli7

Il troppo mi urta - è così insolito.Mi sentivo a disagio, spaesata -come una bacca di fratta montanatrapiantata sulla strada.E non avevo fame. Allora capiiche la fame è un istinto di chi guarda le vetrine dal di fuori.L'entrare, la disperde.

ولأنني رغم القبور..ورغم موت الأرضأرفض أن أموت

Hombre pequeñito que jaula me das. Digo pequeñito porque no me entiendes, ni me entenderás. Tampoco te entiendo, pero mientras tanto ábreme la jaula que quiero escapar. Hombre pequeñito, te amé media hora, no me pidas más.

আজকে তোমার ভিতর-বাইরে বিষম যুদ্ধ পুবের হাওয়া।

When he asks you whyyou chose alone all these years.Tell him that it’s becauseyou love with all claws and bared teeth.Apologize for the scratchesthat you will leave on his skin;ask forgiveness for the bite marks.Tell him you never ever mean to love so hard, but you do.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.

The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.

Poetry in the dark of the night you are my torch.Poetry makes you believe in the freedom in your own home.Poetry causes the increase of the human race.Poetry ennobles the spirit of man.Poetry is like a noble fragrance that caresses your soul.Poetry is the royal essence of beauty.

egitu sentimentil menemukan sebuah situs jutaan tahun mengingatkan pada kepurbaan pada zaman dimana tuhan masih mengutus nabinabi kepada percakapan musafiraun di tepi pantai yang paling diam pada sebuah malam yang mengenangnya membuatmu luruh ketika kau ingat kita pernah begitu dekat

i see poets riding the red winds unchecked by the borders of time, wandering with light feet over the land mines and trip wires, barbed and barbarian, unfettered through the barriers that curtail the flows of life, poets pelting the halting barriers which strangle everyone everywhere.

Cultivate the distance. Nurture the silence. Let it grow until your fragile heart is as far and inaccessible as his marbled emotions. Don't talk. Don't move. Sit still. If he shows up, lie. Believe your own excuses.And if he tries to charm his way back in, punch him in the face.