Poet: Işıl Ayça Akkuş

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I burned a youth for a dream.
That dream is so terrifying,
almost as cold as tears of a summer night.

I burned a love for a dream.
That dream is so cruel,
jealous as an ancient lover.

There shall be none left from me,
as I shall not exist a priori.

I burned memories of a dream.
They have never existed
in the lonely walks of tree roads.

I burned myself for a dream.
Just when she knew how to live,
she had to leave.

Yet there is no remedy,
no remedy other than my dream.

As the love is still warm,
warm as mulled wine in a mug,
I can hear the whisper.
I hear the night breeze.

That dream is still mine,
as I gave birth to it,
as I raised it like they never raised me—
never abandoned.

No remedies for travel bags
full of food, more than regrets.

I loved it so much; I kept it like a breath.
In the end, who am I
if not a dream?

I carried a dream,
carried for years, carried for tears.

I ripped my heart for it
and made a deal with the goddess:
if you pay your dues,
run through those ladders,
I shall grant you
work, the heart, and the journey.

Be careful, your way is bright;
at some point, it might make you blind.

Forget yourself, my child.
You only ran, without knowing,
carried all the weights.
But the victory has yet to come.

This shall not be ordinary;
none will get your passion.
Hence you took a leap of faith,
be a stranger to the nearest breath,
only knowing to leave early,
earlier than anybody.

Because no soul told you to stay,
to have roots where birds pray.

A poet trapped in the modern world,
a poem hidden in an autumn night.
Lost love, lost a friend—
let them never know
all the sorrow you carry.

When the time stopped
in the arms of cruelty,
hold your dream like a fire,
see the flames of passion.

It will surpass your love in blues.
It took you miles,
ages passing by your fears.

Hide around the books,
the place with silent floors.
View the sun, view the forest,
bury your tears in chairs of whiteness.

Talking with the phantom,
phantom of the house with windows,
whispering you the lullabies
from ancient voices.

Sweet dreams, child,
hold your breath once again,
just like love written.

The story had been told many times,
yet no one knows the author.

Get on that ship, child,
you might as well chase glory.

Yet that dream is yours, above the skies.
Your will is strong, just like your heart.