Poetry is a river
where there is no bridge
only a converted reflection.

You are all
the unending dreams of a hurt butterfly,
you descend like evening with intense darkness
to the circle of my memories.

Now in the last garden of time
heavy words are heard of
pensive / silent / unspeaking time.

We had come like words,
frequented ourselves
and flowered our footprints on sands
like questions
in the many unclear, hurt lines
of our body.

Today when you call me
on the utterly silent bed of a false river
I recollect, someday in the past
crowded days were our witnesses.

Today in my hand
millions of poetry flower.
They are not simply poems,
unending talks
in the mountain of wishes.