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.
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