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

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