Nothing but a sinister mist in front of your eyes.
That turns dreams into nightmares,
Youth into old age.
That makes you slave of a place,
prisoner of a memory.
The hand shakes,
The air is thin.
The fingers tremble around a pencil,
letting pour the despair.
The breath gets calmer,
the tears dry.
Keeping a sheet in front of your eyes.
Picture taken in Istanbul, December 2017