Merely intent on one miraculous word has become a lone paragraph,
There is an individual yelling the meaning of tomorrows in a miserable photograph,
A self-recognition in the stardom has fallen into a serfdom of pain-graph,
I am reading the lines of an etymologist’s biography under a subtle autograph,
Though profoundly wounded, the heart goes on breathing a beautified graph,
Totally aware of what’s going around, the poor man faces the attempt to laugh
Life is the game of a chess
Although people avoid the temptation to confess
“I love you” seems a casual sentence people don’t express
With pawns that look inefficient at the very beginning of press
The oncoming moments will certainly utter the aching stress
What you haven’t told today won’t find any address
‘cause tomorrow queens are bound to steal your belongings
The queens on the chess set will merely stet
The truth will charge you with deep heartaches...
The appearance of stars gets beautified with your presence
The darkness of the night becomes ugly with your absence
The mind and soul of the etymologist dance with the above-stated phrases
There have rested no poetry lines that characterize the shadow’s faces
I cannot find any stigma to put the rooks knights and king on chess places
The bishops incessantly fight within my all
Nevertheless, my ears are still after your once-call
Help me, poetiwife, help me get out of that chess-fall...
Written by
the master of loneliness
Okan Emanet
