There lay a pile of bones,
Intact with the tear of stones. Love was made when her love drowned.
Caged in smoke her song float
Dipped in wine her eyes gloat.
With chaos all around
A penumbra of peace surround.
From ruins, she recreated his old verse
In a quest of searching love of hers.
A verse which had her moon,
her tears, her cocoon.
A scribbled book of Pamuk's he holds
Burnt old diary of verses, she re-molds.
She looked down the window and her tomorrow stands
carrying hope beyond nothingness in her dead hands.
