There are as many times as Ruknettin cries in mirrors. If you hold the edge of a season, Ruknettin, rains fall on the arid plains, If you grab a letter by the ankles, Your heart becomes a poem and waters its valleys. You have valleys too, Ruknettin! You make prophecies, you plunder yourself You save your heart first in that fire Why, your voice diminishes in the mirrors. My doctor, I wrap this heart of mine in my clothes I burn it on winter nights and stay warm I'm afraid that I will perish if I cold. My doctor, I don't want to go down to the well of Gayya Give me a rope, I don't want rain I break mirrors, I don't want my appearance Let the seasons turn, I don't want this world I want Allah. I always pass through mirrors, doctor Mirrors pass through me. I will lower a basket from purgatory, Delicate insects will fill up inside Butterflies that have just learned to live freeze when I lower my heart down I always pass through mirrors, doctor! If there is anyone crying for their sins, Angels will caress them with their wings Is your heart always like this? Is it always slow, Ruknettin? Are mirrors a war for you, Ruknettin? Trains pass through your lovers' lips but don't stop at Kalbi's station? Do you never lose at chess? Do you always mount your horse and go? Don't you know that a queen who is separated from his horse Multiplies the loneliness in his blood like poison And finally, kings pass through mirrors? Are you the only one left in this dream, Ruknettin? It's probably always like this. This world is a trap for lovers, Ruknettin! We came here to surround your heart We forgot to speak, we spoke with the language of our hearts. We were reciting prayers, we wished for rain We came to surround your heart. Welcome. Here you go. Here is my heart. When I forget my name, I am RUKNETTİN I am an orphan whose body has been violated. Come through this door, a little further is my heart. My heart is a reformatory, doctor. An orphan child is constantly scolded inside My heart is a bird whose body is nailed to reformatory It dies before it knows how to fly in side hotels My heart is an incorrigible bird, doctor It gets stuck and dies in metropolises. To wake a flower? These firepits go out? To raise the underground from its deep sleep This lake dries up. What's going on and what's happening? Why are the basils singing? Did someone appear in the distance? Did someone fall and faint while reading the Bible? Did the lonely monks have a dream? What happened? My name is Ruknettin, we must have met At a teahouse or at the top of a staircase I must have offered my heart to you Look! I must have said I just hunted him In the wells where Igor poured his poison. Only sin shines in pitch darkness And there's no path from well to well When a hunter aims his rifle A love that shines like the moon When a season loses its direction. You must have been amazed, when my heart took off like Hezarfen. I'm afraid, dear doctor, I'll start this letter by upsetting myself Like a child who grows up quickly, I'll forget where my pockets are first And the past won't find itself a place to hide. Then I'll forget to raise a violet to the funeral. I'll forget, in whatever city I stop my beloved will greet me. Wherever I die, executions will come to my fate The side of my face that looks at you will be a smiling Arab, The other half will be an autumn when leaving and going gets heavy. Wars will increase from the place my forehead touches And as the apocalypse comes dressed in spring's clothes, "Life will have its voluntary vanquished," doctor. The man who is afraid of tomorrow, Ruknettin says so. You, doctor, can you write a rose again Can you accustom spring to the rotting soil The swollen rain to the underground And a love for separation Can you, doctor, associate it with the birds that carry sorrow and magnolias on their wings And can you give me back my trumpet? Oh Mongols of the heart! what's left to give you It became a book and burned And poison remained from its ashes It became a dream and flew away The angels shouted in the sky "Go home, go home!" I returned and the pain of the city remained on me Discotheque girls lying on the boulevard Supermarkets, banks /that is, mass graves/ remained on me. What are you called, oh invaders of the heart They are called barbarians, they are called 'destroyers of a dream'. Take that and take it away, my only heart is left. My ships burned in an elementary school atlas I was coming from Genoa, I had my letters in my hand. I had the deaf hair of a dead girl in my hands I was stuck in the middle of a season I was not coming from the grocer or greengrocer, I was coming from Genoa, doctor I was coming from that girl's hair From a lost court I guess I was coming from my heart. What makes a rose bow If not love What is an arrest warrant issued to the heart, if not love. Oh, from those shelters That