My foyer; ever ending railway.
I counted all the lines on the wall one by one.
Its trees like branches, peasants, homes, villages.
My room; sky, pure red as if to end at any time.
Horrible resting places where I was always alone.
Stinky public toilets, sour scent cologne.
My balcony; free like your voice, messy like your hair.
Chase away realism my master over my mind!
I’m tired, I can’t walk around the home step by step.
By Serhat Fırat Çakıcı