November is the season of poets.
It always radiates a subtle sadness.
It raises the still fog of yellowed evenings.
We take refuge in our arms with the breezes of our souls.
And the footprints of the shadows, hidden behind the sun, take refuge in our garden of heart, with their bitterness and sweetness.
The thorns are stripped from the branches of previous flowers and settle on the branches of future flowers.
At every opportunity, we look for the wing sounds of birds that we frequently hear during summer season.
But because of an unknown delicacy, everything had covered his face one by one with a thin veil.
I slowly search for my invisible lines in my darkness with my hands.
I feel your presence on my face, you touch my lips with your fingers, and then you walk through my door like a faint spark of light.
In the darkness deep within my consciousness
I hear the sound of your heart beating for me
It’s cold – the first days of November I hug you tight like I’m home. It’s snowing and all my forgetfulness is white With things I thought I’d lost.
Then I feel again the scent of a long lost scent rising towards me. Everything I’ve lost is in my arms,
in my own cultivated land…
The chirping of the canaries, the endangered azaleas, the saplings I planted in our garden, everything was slowly falling into the perception of darkness.
Leaves die, one by one, with the crackling of the summer grass, and the human race mourns witnessing a bloody, painful death.
All the loves that are left to mature in a corner are revived with the good news of a new month after the month of sadness and take shape like a sapling planted in the ground.
MÜƏLLİF: CAROLİNE LAURENT TURUNC
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