I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed. I know that it happened, but it happened too fast for me to keep tabs on it. You cried last Friday and I.

On a swaying branch of a withered tree. On a lonely road in a lonely night. Is a wanderer worn out of his walking might. On endless windings in-between the forest,. Yet he wills his sore feet on to the quest. To find his lost village and family. From which he was taken at infancy. On a swaying branch of a withered tree. The flapping bird rests for another flight spree. Across large expanse of dry grassland. Between the scorching sun and the red sand. In search of food despite the famine.

This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging! Create a free website or blog at WordPress.

S0îît tu tє tîîrє . Subscribe to my blog! 1108;т . Please enter the sequence of characters in the field below.