There lay a pile of bones,
Some torn skin scattered aroundLove 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.