From Thirty - Seven Years Old To Gojo

Along the Turkish lanes - I had to , An outcast with face held high, But with the lowered in soul, Where the yellow walls Are scratching the shoulders without touching, I think of you. Almost found a way to escape for days, That you can count with one fist. From this not native country to native, To that native bed where you were not every night , Not hours in a row, But just sometimes. *Gojo, a gypsy name, means beautiful.