From http://www.wittistanbul.com/ Witt Hotels Magazine
The white wipes your lips,
As the crunch of the cucumber
Freshening up the mint.
As if the moist of clouds reached to you,
And you throat was stuffed with marvel.
The Sun is the light between your fingers,
Between which you flip the switch of Apollo.
What’s nicer than the fresh smell of spring
Within this bowl of delight?
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