I thought that the rain drops will wipe
the tear caught in salt crystals,
on the cheek burned by the sand of expectation

In the morning I woke up hanged on a horologe
of passion –
nether, underlie the oak wooden steeple,
the passerby shadows were looking at me

The sun that was born amongst dew droplets,
pierced my retina
always lost on the dim streets of
thoughts

You, nymph raped by the guilty wishes
of the love malnourish ones,
left signs of a beast on my back,
weakness awns

***

I built from paper
stairs whom I ignited
at the beginning of the second step

One morning I woke up with the sweet taste
of rain,
I bought paper made from oak wood
and started to write about a broad,
in shadows of words

Through the retina, the sun burns
soul’s stairways