Poems by Laurent Caroline Turunc

Poems by Laurent Caroline Turunc

 

SİLENT HORSE !

Don’t cry and remember the passing lover ..
Lost places lost their courtyards, lost their homeland
A drought that will last for centuries
Lost loves in the poems of the classical period

My mind is busy, my mind is lost dear !!
Since the existence of man
To joy, to sadness, to sadness, to hiding
Memories whose location is unknown ..
They come to my mind fast.

Like the pain of death, the pain of separation!
When we set out, we buy a handful of soil.
To smell when you miss
Your scent came to my nose ..
If you suffer, I suffer too.

Wild animals zealously want to reach the water
But he is afraid of predators ..
I’m afraid if I breathe your scent into my heart
May not be erased, my mind follows.
Oh, don’t you know that the land of your loved ones is desolate …

Everywhere is full, everywhere is red soil …
Residential walls collapsed …
Traces of pain engraved on faces
Disasters, outbreaks, hits from unknown places
For those who cannot pay ..

Oh if love was an arrow …
I would protect you from misfortune … I would confuse the target
But I was shot without the arrow!
I have no choice but to stop and watch here.
The tongue is broken, the shoulder is broken, the root is broken.

 

BEFORE THE KARANFILLS OPEN!

Smell the smell of roses!
Blue of the Mediterranean..
Get out of the way, Red Sea
Before the dust rises from the feet

Hot fire in hand growing
honey bee is a bee
Dark sky looking in the mirror
Some almonds, some bullet
The palm of the kid with a hole.

A handful of hope in my heart
Is my fear a game?
Pencil remains in the writer’s notes
Mother’s tears are water of the river

Kalas stand of the covenant tower
Dervish’s talent sand clock
O the point where silence is silent
True faith, real dreams..
Wooden splinter under the nails..

If I don’t come back I’ll be destroyed
The whole world is right
Nothing lost between the rotts
The silence of the fake world

No good blood, a drop of truth
I want to bow down and listen to my heart
There is no dagger behind me
After a long victory
Drunk conscience first
Children are a country with no childhood boundaries
Before the marchs pour cloves into the sea..

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