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I want to cry, Rüveyda. To be sliced into a fragment of time perhaps Every cell of me whispers your name at midnight The gavel strikes the silent courts within me Yet love’s politics are no longer defended in the courthouses’ groans! They act as if I am guilty, Rüveyda They are right. To love you is a crime within the dungeons of my soul Meltem winds blow day and night through my chimneys Your longing burns in me like fire But I am the Poyraz, Rüveyda My wind does not make the ivies on its branc