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My mother used to say, “A summer island whose beauty is noticed when summer comes and
people get into this beauty, enjoy it, and then leave the silhouettes of their memories… You don’t
want to get rid of those memories and try to live in your solitude with your own beauty,

you don’t
want it.” A pale smile would appear on her lips, she would say to me, “You can try”, she would say to
me, “You want…” BROKEN MIRRORS I compared the memories of my mother, which she did not
want to break away from her sadness and longing, to a few pieces of things she kept in the chest that
were left to her from my grandmother. A pure silk broadcloth colored shawl, a black velvet festoon, a


pink embroidered handkerchief, a wooden rosary… My grandmother wanted these items to survive;
So was my mother, she wanted her longing to live on. He always had people and places in his heart
that made him sad. He tirelessly remembered a fewLiterary > Poetry and“A mirror, like a salt lake,
sometimes burns the eyes.” A tune continues inside me that makes the sadness feel as if it is endless.
The longing for a passenger who has to travel to never-ending roads is such an old and long calendar

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that there is no heart that would not get lost in their distance. I didn’t choose to get lost in those
distances. While I was dreaming of getting to the level, the walls of the castles that could not be
instilled in my cinema were being built, I had not been aware of it. When I lit the lantern of those

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distances deep in my heart, I saw the longing for years, its form stretching across my heart like the
dead body of a lover. It was deep, it was sharp, it was ruthless. He was at the same doors, on the
same roads, in the same story as me. Now those doors, those roads are far away; but I still have the
story.She is both desirous of seeing new places and is suffering from the fact that her
attachment to those places will be hurt by goodbyes. He would be willing to be involved with

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new friends and new conversations, and he would have dimples when his heart was hurt by
separations. I didn’t know how to get hurt like my mother from goodbyes, and how to groan
with longing like my mother. Then ‘Crying’, where we stayed for four years, is a tunnel
opening to the sadness of my life; it was a hand that filled my heart with my mother’s heart.
When I was entering that city, I said to my father, “What would this city say to us if it were
spoken when leaving?” I added by pointing to my mother, “Don’t touch, she’ll probably say

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‘cry’. My mother joined in with a wry smile at my carefree laughter of my father and I. Then
my father said, “If he calls us that, what would he say to your mother?” and murmured a song
that my mother loved very much: “Did Mihrican touch it, did your rose fade? Come on, don’t
cry, don’t cry strange nightingale…” In Ağlasun, I learned what it means to bond with a friend,
to be injured by a conversation, to bleed and not be able to locate the wound, to feel that you
belong to a city. My father never showed his sadness. He always looked cheerful, always
refree. I would only recognize his glee, flashing for a moment and then fading and his anger
fading. He liked to talk humorously, sometimes even when he was at the height of his anger,
he used to make a joke about his anger and quenched his anger with a laugh. I thought he was
a very rare person. Then, when we went to his hometown of Artvin, I met many men like him
in the village where my father was born. Now my father was only rare outside of Artvin. For
me, Isparta has become a novel based on the words of roses, aunt Mevhibe, Canan, memories
remembered on a balcony overlooking the roses, secret pains, and wounds whose blood is still
flowing. Who said, “What you call a novel is a mirror circulated on a long road”. An indelible
longing was reflected in my mirror from the roads I passed… Aunt Mevhibe was the most
special friend my mother met in Isparta, where we stayed for two years. She took insatiable
pleasure from the time she spent with him, from the tales, masnavis and manias she heard
from him. How many cities he visited, he had a few friends in each city will be remembered,
sometimes it was not even that much. My mother was introverted. He had a shy nature. He
did not like to be at length in casual conversations. His long sentences sounded like poetry
because he spoke little. Sometimes my father would say, “Your words like this poem inedme,