Whenever you carry winter in your womb. Summer always leaves stretch marks behind. And when you start to hate the desert rotting in your skin begging for a drop of water, remember you are not alone. You know, that serene hope of finding an oasis is ten thousand times brighter than the fireball above your head and yet you give up your journey midway thinking you might end in a mirage of fake metaphors. You wander in the wilderness of a desert in a thousand winged nightmares in search of a source of life. Perhaps your green leaves are refugees caged by the heat waves of the summer. The truth will be hard to digest when you knew I weren’t blooming in your thoughts. It’s hurts me as well. Let it be so. Give me back the flakes of my heart that have enveloped your existence so that I will not be dried up again. Let me sow the seeds of healing in these wounds that once were beautiful gardens and butterflies were live flowers of air. If you find a fountain of love wandering somewhere, hanging on to the fingertips of the lost words on the sleepless nights, leave it back to me. Be a guide to me so that no more spring die inside my heart again in the unquenchable thirst of a forever.

A gentle rain suddenly staggers in the middle of the alley, in the pretense that it’s too late before you turn yourself into a black shadow. Then, before a silent farewell, a poem that you wrote with your bleeding fingertips on the overgrown rhymes and blooming green realities will remember you and make you wet. It is certain that the dead will return from somewhere in your memories. But once you remember, do not leave anyone alone to feel helpless in guilt. Realizations that cannot be corrected are a kind of pain. Sometimes it hurts like an abandoned shore waiting for a gentle kiss of the waves. Sometimes it’s too late to realise that the sea is a desert made by tears. There are no wounds that will not heal over time, but if God ever came before you and ask what really you need? What will you reply? You should at least ask for a human being with a tender soul to stand by you with his lips pressed to your burning forehead in the middle of the night where moon is a dot and stars are made for our infinities. Someone who stretches out all the twigs to your sun from any shade or cold. Ask for a human being who will stand beside you, ask for someone who will make you laugh in your darkest of times. A broken flower still touches her fingers from the loose hair when you’re not sitting with her. Pollen grains often peel off from the skin in soft yellow when exposed to cold winds. The toes break off in the granular cracks of time, like roots that break off when plucked before spring. Let not summer and winter be ashamed of the body that has been shared with each other. But in a world of stoned lies, Let time prove that the body of the spring is not a visual object in front of others. It’s ok to cry with a broken heart, and weep for a long time in the darkness of unfulfilled dreams. But do not misunderstand that this is the end. Do not be ignorant of the fact that this is the land of those who are willing to help. If the sadness in you have a room, let me in and let’s cry together. Does this breeze have an intense smell of love or despair in your extreme silence. I’m a forest of bright red flowers when you left and now my goldmohur begins to rot. Will you visit me next spring? If so I will bleed the day red and spills the air with love. Because my spring is where you bloom. I’m going to be a butterfly on the walls of your heart to give you a little ripeness at least once. If you are looking for me in your abandoned poems, I’m no longer there but I love you beyond boundaries, beyond closed doors.

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