Once a word enters poetry, it changes, for it is rebuilt. "Living" is also a word redefined by Cahit Zarifoğlu. For he continued his earthly journey with all its unknown and ordinariness, peace and anxiety, light and mystery, fear and supplication; with every step, by being himself and by making the moment his own, he constructed an entirely different way of living. As the train, setting off falteringly on a fog-covered railway, moves toward Silvan, the capital of the poet's childhood memories, the courtyard of the New Mosque takes silence by the arm and pulls it down to earth. Souls seeking a home within a vast civilization bow once more with helplessness to the great moments carved out of solitude. In Living, it is clearly seen that rather than the days themselves, it is what they contain that matters; how a handful of letters on white pages smile like mountains that know death, giving back the darkness shattered by the light. Without realizing it, I was saying, "There is a reason for all these, for the memoryless weeks, for my fear that they might notice my heart." Now you are something to me... You exist. Yet I was faltering. Was the truth I thought of secretly, the one I feared being noticed, you, or was I merely dreaming again, in the cheapest way, cowardly casting off memorylessness and emptiness from my back without making any effort? As I said, I am faltering. Is it easy to start living anew?