Panic-point-blank - PANIC___POINT

Bak Milena,

"En çok seni seviyorum." diyorum ama belki de bu gerçek aşk değildir.

"Sen bir bıçaksın ve ben hep o bıçakla kendime saplarım",dersem belki de gerçek aşkı anlatmış olurum.

Ve Milena, kalbimde seninle her şeye katlanabilirim.

| Franz Kafka

şairler aşkı öldürdü

aşk hakkında o kadar çok şey yazdılar ki artık kimse onlara inanmıyor Bence çok normal çünkü gerçek aşıklar acı çeker ve sessiz kalır.

Dünden hiçbir şey geri gelmeyecek, başka başlangıçlar için dua et ve geçmişin bağını yak

Every time i look at you,

my world slips...

Love is an adventure, either you return from it regretful, repentant, or enamoured.

How did you come back?

Lets agree on me loving you from a distance, And you being closer to my heart than my veins. And me being a stranger to whom you tell your troubles, And you being to my heart, the sweetest and dearest lover.

| Nizar Qabbani

Onu yalnız gördüm,

bir deri bir kemik, gözleri iri, gerçekten yorgun,

"Kimi seviyorsun?" diye sordum.

Kalbini kim yaraladı ve parçaladı?

Geceleri gözlerini kim eritip seni huzursuz etti?

Dedi ki: Onu suçlama.

Kalbimin ona taptığını bilmiyor,

Onu aylarca gizlice sevdim,

Yüreğim hasretten öldü.

Granada

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was born. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Suad once more. I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor. And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendor. Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore. In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore. In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour. She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow. The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow. Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row. The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow. She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show. Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go. If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago. When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

-Nizar Qabbani