I am not a poet…
Though my pen had given birth to some poems
On the yellow pages of a torn diary
Under the afternoon light
Or a peaceful night,
That later transformed itself into fiery.
While everybody was enjoying leisure
The mild breeze of your thoughts
Shook the boughs of my imagination with pleasure.
The mystery of those creations is not unknown to you
The clouds of my condensed emotion
And sometimes a bit of desolation
Had poured the poems of happiness and blue.
But I was not the only evil
Your love made me responsible
To fill those words with rhythm.
Today empty is my poem’s box,
You were my insight
Your love was my inscribe
Now my feelings are hard like rocks.
Though your presence is still floating
With my every blood cell,
But the full moon of your love has hidden itself
Behind the darkness’s veil,
Only by waning time after time
Making me forget what is called rhyme.
Now my yellow pages don’t dream of rainbow
If there is no today left for us
There cannot be any tomorrow.
So, if anyone now asks me to write a verse
I’ll rather take it as a curse,
And say to them straight
That I've never been a poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem