This document is a collection of narrative expressionist prose poems by Anwer Ghani. It includes an introduction explaining Ghani's style of narrative expressionism. The collection contains over 20 short poems with titles like "Rain", "River", "Farmers" and "Summer". Each poem narratively explores themes through imagery and metaphor rather than direct statements. An author biography is also provided, identifying Ghani as an Iraqi poet known for narrative expressionism and digital expressionism styles.

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TESSELLATION
Poetic Nature
Expressive narrative style
Anwer Ghani

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TESSELLATION
Prose Poems
Expressive narrative style
Anwer Ghani
1st
edition 2017
2nd
edition 2019
Arcs Publishing House

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Contents
Contents .................................................................4
Preface ...................................................................6
The Author .............................................................8
Tessellated Narrative Expressionistic Poems...............9
RAIN ................................................................... 10
RIVER ................................................................. 12
TIMES ................................................................. 14
FARMERS ........................................................... 16
BIRDS ................................................................. 18
SALT................................................................... 20
LANDS................................................................ 22
SUMMER ............................................................ 24
RIVERS ............................................................... 26
WATER ............................................................... 28
SONS................................................................... 30
LIGHT ................................................................. 31
TREES................................................................. 33
FARMER ............................................................. 35
PERFUME ........................................................... 37
ROCKS................................................................ 39
BREEZE .............................................................. 41

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WHISPERS .......................................................... 43
COLORS.............................................................. 45
WINDS ................................................................ 47

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Preface
This is a collection of my narrative expressionistic
prose poems which has been written in 2017, and it
is a first volume of my annual poetry series
"Tessellation"
Narrative expressionism is writing style where the
literary piece has been written in narrative-lyric
system in which the written text has appeared with
the narrative superficial structure and deep poetic
one. In narrative expressionism the narrative text
composed of poetic elements and there is no time,
place, or characters but there are poetic, lyric,
imagery elements which have been narrated. In this
hybrid system, the glory of both; prose and poetry
have transfigured completely, so it reaches the
infinite target of prose poetry writing. The
expressive narrative text appears in one block; no
lines, no breaks and no blanks.
In the tessellated writing multiple texts have
appeared in different theme and story but they are
one in their deep idea and letters. In my
"Tessellation I" there are multiple poems in one
poem so there are primary title and secondary titles.
The adjective primary titles of the triple pieces is

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the depiction of the poems and not the themes, that
is to say it is a descriptive title of the titles where
the poems behave as a mirror in a mosaic system.

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The Author
Anwar Gheni Jaber (previously Anwer Ghani) is an
Iraqi poet and artist. He was born in 1973 in
Babylon. His name has appeared in many literary
magazines and anthologies (as Anwer Ghani) and
he have won many prizes; one of them is the
"World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU".
Narrative expressionism and digital expressionism
are his peculiar styles. Anwar is the author of
"Narratopoet"; (2017), "Antipoetic Poems"; (2017)
and other 50 books.

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Tessellated Narrative
Expressionistic Poems

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RAIN
Rainy wishes
The face of earth will be grim without the childish
jumping of the rain drops. Yes, rain is a pleasant
bending which had planted the ambergris in the hearts of
our farmers. My ancestors have taught their souls the
abysmal waiting, and kneaded their mud with its tales,
so you may see them sitting in their narrow gardens with
rainy wishes. They look at the sky and whispering with
yearning. Yes, you are right; I am the inheritor of silence
and rainy wishes.
Rainy Tears
The rain is the yearning’s tear. I remembered when
the sky had ascended towards the throne; she
remained looking at her sister; the earth, with deep
passion. Silently she was sending kisses with the
wind’s wings, but when the yearning fires, her eyes
tear with rain. Yes, the rain drops are the grieving
tears of a lucent soul.

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Rainy moments
I like rain because he is the portrayal of love. His
color was wet, but warm and his hand was shivery
but kind. He comes at evening as an old tale hugs
the small leaves with big passion. When we get lost
in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing
our bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be
miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.

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RIVER
The Rivery Flowers
The blue flowers of our river try to see the
womanish glances that teach the world its
marvelous existence and give the life its shining
love. When the days try to sing their beauty, they
will intonate their magic chants and when the
rainbow decides to wear its colors, it will take from
their beautiful cloaks. Yes, the magic lands see their
wonderful smiles on the face of our river flowers,
and the winds can’t find her eardrops without its
mirrors.
The Rivery Wind
The rivery wind is a legendary tale penetrating our
depth with her stormy love. She colors our world
with its unique flavor, gives the life its spicy taste
and its glances teach the hearts their yearning. The
river is our wavy essence, and the wind is a free
woman with an orange mantle. As you see; I am
sitting behind trees to see the wind glory and
dissolving in my master words:" everything has a
rivery soul, even you."

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The Rivery Color
When the morning starts his journey, and the
squirrel travels through his green songs, all the
flavors take their azure veils. The flowers, the
women, and the old farmers know the amazing
colors of the river’ tales where the blue dreams
wear light dresses and the faint whispers make an
aurorean cake from the early dawn smiles. The time
is an absent moment without the rivery passion, and
the places are just dry deserts without its colors.
Through their hidden secrets, we see our sleepy
dreams and from their loud wishes, we write poetry
with hidden letters.

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TIMES
Sunset
My hand is so hot like the soul of sunset. It has
burnt our hearts with its passion, so you can't
see here but flowers. It comes with its reviving
breeze to open our doors, but I am the
blindness’ son know nothing about its amazing
orange.
Twilight
I like twilight. It fills my lung with rebels’
breaths and vanish my dreams in the freedom’s
wings. I have emerged from her dress’s
weaving, as a butterfly and disappeared in its
red colors as a remote land. At that moment,
there will be no space for yellow words on my
lip.

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Colored Evening
Our dreams have a colored evening, which
refreshes the hearts as smiling girl. We liked its
whispers, but when its letters take their real
shapes there is nothing but sadness. We are, as
the blind trees, know nothing about its breeze
and all what we know is a constant trying to live
and a continuous attempt to catch the remnant
of this wide world.

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FARMERS
An Old Farmer
I'm an old farmer, know the amazing colors of the
flowers’ hearts where the blue dreams wear their
shiny dresses and the whispers make a sunny cake
for the morning’s birds. When the squirrel travels
through the green songs, all the flavors take their
pinky veils and when the rivers chant their daring
stories, every girl immerse in her blue dreams. They
fill the times with a stormy passion and plant smiles
in our dry deserts. In their sleepy eyes, you can see
the river’s secrets and from their loud whispers, you
may know the silent wishes.
Southern Farmer
I am a farmer from the south bring nothing in my
pocket but oranges. Look at my face, it is brown
and look at my hands, they are white. I am from
here, from the south; an Eastern man with a dreamy
soul. Yes, I am a dreamer from the south; my heart
bears nothing but simple love and my mouth smiles
without cause.

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A Farmery Heart
When that southern bird has seen our dreams, he
opened his book. He knows our farmery hearts and
his hand, which had come from the remote valley,
colors the moon face with a laugh. O. dreamy bird,
this is my farmery love sits behind my eyes. Can
you see it? Can you hear its muteness? Here is my
pretend; a colored veil covers my fire and a shy
smile bears my coldness over warm wings.

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BIRDS
A Free Bird
I am an old farmer. I cannot see my figure, but on the
water face. It was small like my dream. At that time I
had been a child dissolved in the butterfly colors. Oh
the purity which they steal it. They take our smooth
olive, make missile from it, and then they told me
that I am a serious plant.
Yes, without tiredness I shall repeat the birds’ songs,
I should not care about the world brassy face, nor the
one-eyed city. Yes, I shall learn the earth the rose
voice, and the lonely winds will not find a place in
my skin. I am a free bird, I love the mud smell, and
because my father planted me with a wheat seed in
our small garden, I like the noon sun when it
touches my face.
The Yellow Bird
You can feel my pulse with its violet water and great
tales of blind sand where the echo groans as a yellow
bird exhausted by rain. It narrates his bright pain
with wide eyes. The crying clouds are shameful
because they dissolve his feather and bring an

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autumn whoop filled with a yearning death. Oh the
bitter yearning, I am not happy and can't tell you my
fiery passion, but you should remember that yellow
bird and his grey blood.
The birds
Despite all of these dark clouds, and despite the
absence of simplicity behind the skyline, I still like
the sky color, and its wide space which makes you
feel that you are a light paper over the winds. The
sky despite its changeable color, it likes the simple
things. It bends to wipe a head of a wet bird. As this,
as a paper in the river, I want to live in simplicity,
walking in my town alleys with breeze jests with my
deep. I am now feeling boredom in this noisy city.
The birds are few nowadays. I was trying to plant a
tree from that type which blossoms in winter to make
the birds live with no estrangement, or in a precise
words to make myself live with no estrangement,
because the color of my county becomes so strange.
The birds told me that they are tired from waiting the
runaway boats. They were whispering in my ears that
the earth becomes red like the lipstick. Yes, the birds
don't lie. They are icy and strange creatures. Listen to
their chants which will make your soul remember the
loyalty.

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SALT
Salty tears
I am the son of war; know nothing but smoke and
see nothing but black colors. My rivers filled with
salty tears and my dead children lie on the dry
streets as cheap rocks. Look at my hands; they
were smashed as a west paper, and look at my
face which was stolen under a bright sun. I don't
want any song or any celebration. All my wishes
are to see my women without weeping and
hearing my birds' chants without crying. O, blind
world, who was killing my dreams with a cold
blood. O, the humanity who had forgotten me as
an extinct creature. I am a man from Iraq, do you
see me?
A Salt Shadow
After all that warmness which overflowed me with
falls of light, I find myself just a crippled shadow.
Here is my heart, look at it; do you see anything
except salt? I am the corpse which had been
thundered by deaf fever. I lean down on barefooted
roads as a stranger, nothing recognizes me but cold.

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In my salt soul I cannot see but groaning. This is
me: a salt shadow dreaming of waterish hand.
Salt water
I am just a heap of salt remnants. Their ghosts ride
on me as a blind horse so I am good only in
clashing with my trees. I do not see all that glory
but I can see a stone bleeding my feet, a harsh trunk
cleaving my head and my grandfathers' tales telling
me what they saw when their heads were immersed
in salt water.

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LANDS
The Wizard Land
In "The Flowers’ City" the wild flowers cover the
land and her colored veil has a dreamy universe. On
a magic motorcycle with a soul had been filled with
the amazing road I had flown toward this magic
land. The wizard land steals the minds and left an
unforgettable memory in my deep corners. Honestly,
I am not a big traveler, but I am sure that I won't see
like this bewitching land.
The Bare Land
My life is salty like our grandfather’s brook which
we try to plant trees in its sand without benefit.
Because of his angry moment he had named "The
angry stream; Azzalan" and because of its dead
land they had named its village; "The bare land,
Alaria". Despite all the palms which he had planted
around it, you can't recognize its colorless face
from my life. Now I am not in the bare land, but its
dry winds color my dreams.

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The Pain Land
All the moments of pain are just roads. They take
my loneliness to a dark corner and teach it how to
be familiar. The pain is a cold story dresses its
colored veil in amazing twilight. No one can know
the gray face of pain like Iraqis. No one can play
the starring of eternal absent more perfect than my
land. Yes, I am from here, the pain land. My father
is the groaning and my mother is the weeping.

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SUMMER
Summer is not beautiful
Our summer is not beautiful because our girls have
no new veils and our children have no smiles. In
summer the sea is windless and the sky is cloudless
but the eyes of this world are blind to see my bare
body. Summer is so lightweight and my house is
summery in everything; there is no sofa, no
television and no life. Our morning is hot and
empty and our evening is dry and painful. Our
summer is not beautiful because its sun is dark and
its tales are sad.
Our Crazy Summer
I am from the south where the sun is naked and the
rivers are waterless. I can't give you a rose because
our summer is a skilled flower’s killer and our
butterflies had retired in an anonymous day. Our
summer is crazy; his hair is not combed and his
rings are strange. If you see his face you won't
forget his scowl and if you touch his hand you
won't forget his coldness. Our summer is crazy and

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had taught us his bizarre story so this world’s
people don't like our walking and they always try to
push us from the bridge.
The Dark summer
The summer’s kites are beautiful and bear our
dreams on their wings but our summer always cuts
their silks and leaves us with tears. Our summer is
an old dizzy portent so he knows nothing about our
dry flowers and sees our pain but doesn't send any
breeze to smooth our reddish cheeks. Unlike our
primitive souls, our summer is mysterious and dark.
It has brought all the world’s smokes into our land
in a faceless night.

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RIVERS
The River’s Face
The river knows and the remote flowers know also.
I don’t tell them the secret of our south treasure, but
the bean has a gross voice, and you can hear all the
news from her. He draws butterflies on our lips and
makes from our pain a colored breeze. He is
warmhearted and his pulse is always hot. From his
face, the image of my soul emerges like a dazzled
flower. She is blue and sleepy and there is a white
spike on her left hand.
Arab’s River
I heard that the rivers’ waters, which breathe their
laughs in the springs, will end in The Arab’s River.
The birds which leave their eggs in the high trees
will build their nest in the garden of my grandfather
and the clouds which turn the sky dusty, will give
their rain in our dessert. The bombs which had been
made in the remote land will sleep in my river’s
dreams. So I am a famous man and my river is a
kind heart.

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River’s Tales
The winter chants which had been made from our
mumbles had a very delicate roaring. At that time the
roads is wide because we are sons of old farmers
know nothing about the river tales. In fact in "Al-
Arian", my childhood town, everything is simple
even the river tales, and you shouldn't expect that
there may be fairies in our water. From that purity
we had built primitive skyscrapers, exactly as our
dreams. Now you can imagine the smell of our feet,
it had left in our heart unforgettable trances. We
didn't know how our dirty feet’s could illuminate the
darkness and whispering softly in the ears of our
silence? We did not know the color of the sun at its
beautiful sunset. That is to say we are stolen people.
In the same time our trees had knew everything, and
this is very strange, where my tree know everything
and I don’t know anything.

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WATER
A Waterfall
There is no waterfall in Iraq and all what can I see
is the bitter desert. Our dresses are black and our
women are shadows of crying. I am a man without
figure and like the birds; my home is a simple nest
under unmerciful sun. Look at my skin, it is dry
and look at my eyes; they are illusionary. My
morning is a painful story and my evening is a sad
memory. Nothing here but the crying; yes In Iraq
everything is destroyed even the beautiful women.
A lake
My friend told me that there is a beautiful lake near
his home. At that moment I remembered our lake.
Yes in Iraq there is a lake, but it has been filled with
blood and we call the "War’s daughter". Its eyes are
sharp and her sound is sad like my heart. When I
see it, I remember our bare children and all weeping
mothers. Yes we live in a sad land where you can't
find any dream.

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A Brook
My grandfather said; there is nothing like a cold
brook where the waterish breeze has colored the
smooth butterflies. I am a man from the south
where the streams covers our fields but I can't
remember anyone. My grandfather was a farmer
from south and he clove its brooks. He was keeping
the tales of the green land in his chest as a treasure
but his grandson know nothing about the southern
tales and see nothing but a dry life so you are seeing
my bitter soul and you feel my thirsty heart.

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SONS
One Word Poem
Babyloniansson
One Word Poem
Farmersson
One Word Poem
Warsson
One Word Poem
Southernsson

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LIGHT
When I Saw Light
When I found a sound, my journey became a river,
and when I swathe light, my soul became a flower,
and when I met him, I found the hope.
A Boat of Light
I am a flower from the sand’s cities suffers from
love as a shepherd had been drowning in the gulf. I
am standing in that corner, enumerating the
yearning’s breaths. In one day I had bravely crossed
the silence by a boat of light. I had looked at the
faces of fields when they were chanting there lovely
songs. At that time, the lights’ souls held my hand
and gifted me their precious treasure. They fired my
ribs with unforgotten flap and stroked my head with
brassy stones.

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He Who Saw Light
I love the mud, because it was a memory of your
great hands. I feel so pride when I see flights of
arrivers sit at your door seeking some nectar from
you big secrets.
Yes, I know, you look at us - the primitive- with a
smile because you are Sin Liqui who saw
everything. Here, we are talking about the infinity
but you had kneaded it between your fingers and
illuminated its dark cities by a leafy light. I see you
on brassy Uruk’s porches looking at us with a cup
of tea glitters like a Babylonian angel who plays in
the wilderness with Enkidu’s deer.
Yes, your hands defeated the aging and death,
because you saw the secrets. O Sin Leqi Unninni,
you look at us and smile, because you are (who saw
the light).

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TREES
The Silent Tree
These birds love the silent tree and like to perch on
that bough. You know; the love is unexplained
thing but we know it very well. From that lovely
bough, the leaves and feathers had fallen with a
quarrelsome smile. This was a heavy thing for that
tired tree which is filled with sad stories. She
always descends to clean the ground from the
frivolous feathers. Her slim fingers drown
butterflies and her broken heart chants absent
songs. I saw her kissing water like my voice which
I had forgotten at my postponed beginning.
Missing trees
I am a wild man knows the animals' sounds but not
pure like them. The bears are neither rough nor
brown and the owl is sliver and sees the truth. At
that glory, I was smiling in the morning and for
many times I was sitting at a lake I didn't remember
its name. Now I am rootless; my small hut had lost
its threads and my mantle had colored with

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forgetfulness. This sharp city had slapped my
cheeks mercilessly and immersed oblivion in my
memory. I have been crying bitterly since that time
where I had saw her. I am crying for my precious
trees. I had forgotten my color and my voice. Now I
am very sad and colorless and never remember the
smiles of my missing trees.
A Yellow Tree
I am a yellow tree with cold whispers. As a thirsty
spike, I am waiting crippled dreams. My streets had
been stolen and my brooks know nothing but
pallor. In April, the children fly lovely kites while
my birds disappear in the mud with motionless
souls. Oh my days, here is a wound, please listen to
it.

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FARMER
Old Farmer
I am an old farmer and all these lonely winds can't
find place on my tongue. Like a green leaf, I cannot
see my face but in water and all kisses of North
Mountains share me my pillow. I love the sun when
it burns my cheeks and I madly love mud’s smell
because my father had planted me in our rivulet.
Yes, I'm dissolving in our rivers as a young
butterfly and without tiredness I shall repeat the
birds’ songs which give our blue flowers their free
wings.
A Farmer from the south
It is me; a farmer from the south where the
strangeness had drowned in the gulf. My voice is a
watery tale and my yearning is an absent moment.
Someday I had crossed into that sorcerous
riverbank with a boat of silence. I had looked at the
face of the field when it chanted its song. At that
time I had met the travelers’ souls which gave me

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their treasure. They gifted my ribs unforgettable
beats and hid in my pocket their eternal secrets.
A Farmer
I am a farmer know this earth perfume. I grew
between its legumes like a butterfly. Come here; look
at the Euphrates’s sweetness. He doesn't know any
spite. With a brown garment and a headband, he
descended as a desert cavalier, so it is not strange to
see all that sand covering his face. Also, I will tell
you about Uruk, the sleepy city, which was the seven
wise men built up its foundations. Come here; look
at my palms, and see how they are coarse like our
trees. Because of this, you find the darkness sits
there, in that corner with its icy dress, and killing my
children.

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PERFUME
Remote Perfume
We can't continue to live underwater because our
horses smell the perfume of remote land. This remote
perfume has reaches us last days where I was driving
my thought towards surrealistic freemen. Believe
me, I know that this world has inspirational windows
and our sky has awesome colors, but what can I do,
if all our doors had been stolen and all my eyes were
killed by unknown?
Universal Perfume
My skin is brown and I can see the bars and the
cold prisons of our fences. You can see my rowdy
trees, my bitter coffee and the loneliness of my
words, but when we return to our deep, we will find
the shining universal perfume.

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Her Perfume
She showed me the soul of ambergris and the
hidden colors of the life. So the angels who know
everything add nothing and the sorcerers who do
everything do nothing. From her perfume, the world
takes his meaning. The candles have no souls in the
absence of her big heart and the roads will be blind
without her soft hand. You can’t feel the days’
pulses without her perfume and the riverbanks’
flowers can’t find their chants, but in the eyes of a
dreamy woman.

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ROCKS
The Rocky Girl
The globalization is the indulged daughter of our
wide world. She is conqueror and has thousand
songs, but I; the farmer from the south; know
nothing about them. She is slim and bright but her
heart is rocky. When she visits our city, our damask
rose disappears quickly and our wells become
bloody. No warmth on its hand and no place for my
small dreams. Nothing there but empty spikes
uncover their legs. Yes, it is bending in amazing
position but in fact there is nothing in her head but
the heavy air.
Rocky Flowers
I remember my grandfather’s flowers very well; they
were silent and colorless like my life. They always
filled with a fugacious blossom, and incessantly hid
with gray veils. Those rocky flowers have dressed
my face his unaccountable failures and as a
womanish heart; they have colored my life with their
bitter passion. They have taught me the sadness since

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I saw my earth’s tears and as legendary heroes; they
have filled my streamlets with blood.
A Rocky Soul
Believe me; all our sadness can’t be happened
without the silence of this soul which hides our
dreams behind her lost head. It is here, in me, this
icy tale, which always kills cold bloodedly my
days. She is not beautiful at all, and in one day she
shredded my kite fiercely. This obscurant soul
teaches my flowers the war’s songs, and slyly lies
near our riverbank with her dark sorcery. She is liar
and blind like me.

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BREEZE
A Dry Breeze
That evening with its breeze has planted in my soul
an unforgettable tales. I don't like the crying, and as
any man, I wish to fall in a deep love, but you see my
smashed tress and my lonely streets. I am a man
from the ruined land. My dreams were killed as a
beautiful bird and my smile was stolen in a bright
day. I am standing under these remnants as a shadow
without feet or head. I try to cry and always attempt
to wash my bitter heart, but the stormy wind is
constantly coloring my soul with a dry breeze.
A Slivery Breeze
This silvery breeze is delicate as a green apple.
Under its wings, the town lives with quiescence, and
the swans dance like sun songs. The field’s birds
with their vivid colors, bath over its swings with
delight. Wet leaves fill the street with morning songs
and moisten the girls’ hearts with the dreams. It
comes from a remote land on softness’ wing. Its
sleepy eyelashes colors my blue dreams with pearl
taste and its fragrance jumps between our breaths as
a butterfly.

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Saba Breeze
Summer's waterfalls are so bashful, but they inspire
my body an unforgettable heartbeat. They hit my
head by their stones, so I feel incompetent. In their
hands the gentle Saba breeze appeared more
peaceful. How can I touch their tales?

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WHISPERS
The Sea’s Whisper
Here, is our sea with endless dreams. Do you know
anything about the sea’s whispers? Do you see the
smiles which reside behind his veil? The sunset
loves the sea, where the sun combs the hair of the
fish and draw smooth seasons on his tales. I heard
his whispers; they are filled with true. I saw his
dreams in a precious moment, they are blue and
brilliant. They are our souls.
Her Whispers
She whispers from there: Where will you find your
story? The violet roses are sleepy, and the mirrors
follow the white trees. The birds and the fabled river
know that moment, which needs a smile and warmth.
I will drown in the yearning sea. I will hug that train
where we met sleepy sounds, so from there, my story
will begin.
She said: the river colors are descended from that
balcony and they should kiss the eyes of flower

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seller. That colored shadow told me: when the moon
sleeps in your lids, you will know a new kiss and you
will see the cloud flowers.
Grandmother’s Whispers
I love the moon because his smile is shining like the
tales of my grandmother. She was whispering every
night in my dreams’ ear, and telling me the story of
colorful birds in that remote land. She was a good
narrator, and sometimes her narrative surpasses our
narrative poetry. I saw her ocean and sat beside its
shore in that warm world. I told her my story and
inform her about my shivering years, which the gray
souls had eaten their peels. I told her that I don’t like
to cry, but you see there is no place for my smile.
Those bloody souls had stolen my life. They said that
the body is the cause of the sadness, but I found no
truth in their red voices. I had heard my
grandmother’s tales and she whispered in my deep
that the love of the moon doesn't need blood.

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COLORS
The Warm Colors
Winter doesn't come with its usual coldness. It has
grasped all the warm colors and unwinds them in my
dreams. His voice was brown like a remote summer
and his gazes are smooth like an absent spring. Come
here and a look at our barefoot boys; they jump over
the grass as squirrels and fill the sharp winds with
smiles. It is so amazing to see warm smiles in midst
of the rocky souls. Please look at sunset in their eyes
while they chant dreamy lucent songs.
Colored smiles
The water has a smile, which you can’t see but in
Holi day, where the colors spread their dreams over
the watery fingers. In its March, the colored air fills
the sky and gives the earth its springy face. In Holi,
the souls dress their new veils, and the birds chant
their colored smiles.

47. Tessellation
46
The Colored World
It was late when we reached Mumbai, but the streets
were crowded and the colors had filled the space. It
was December when we had left the ice in Tehran, to
immerse in Mumbai’s summer. No winter in
Mumbai, just colors so you don’t need any extra
things in this colored world, where the souls had
been filled with flowers and the minds had been
colored with songs. The screamed lights had made
the buildings shining as a colored bride filled with
henna. I can't forget that road which was
disappearing in the time of high tide and that
skyscraper which had stood in the heart of that shore.

48. Tessellation
47
WINDS
A Windy Love
As a dazzled butterfly, I will end in love of this earth.
I will exit from its fissures with a crown of heavy
years. Like this, like a windy love, I will dissolve in
the lake’s dream.
A Windy Moment
In our windy boat, you can see all blue colors, and
the deep lands of dreams. With it, we have crossed
the seas of sound where the magic fields singing
their ballads. At that windy moment, some secret
souls greet us warmly.

49. Tessellation
48
Windy fingers
When you reach those remote lands and when you
see my pain, please ignite a candle in our cold night,
and make this sleepy world know something about
the truthful light. I know; you can't remember the
souls of the flowers which know nothing but beauty
but when we drown deeply in our dreams and when
you meet all the possible illuminations, at that time
you may find the windy fingers of the poet.

50. Tessellation
49