Towards hope It's also time to write a poem for a drink
The curtains are swaying on the cornices attached to my dreams, after how many curtains will the mime artist say goodbye to the audience, sparks jumping out of my veiled life, where I have never been more marked by the mime artist, and soon I will collect a bowl and a comb and escape from myself.
Think about it like a dream:
How many more curtains will be drawn over the dead climate?
Since that first day when I was obsessed with writing, the curtains have been rising, my inner voice has just thundered and while I was waiting for rain, flaky snow started to fall, and as if this was not enough, my head was spinning, obviously I focused on the rotation of the world, maybe the world is keeping up with me.
Even though it was a street weekend in a dead silence that tickled me with a shout.
There is no doubt how these secluded places, which serve during the day under the title of bars and cafes, will be closing soon, and how they stain our quality neighborhood. How could anyone possibly read this sentence, how would they fire it, after all, while a place where freedom is experienced is the name of a district, the neighborhood I live in does not look stylish at all.
Curtains are flying.
A witty dervish hidden in the heart and the sky dome where I hang, look how softly snowflakes are falling.
It's also the right time to write a poem for a drink, although I look back at my past that I wrote when it was a poem or two accompanying the day...
You know, when I was not acquainted with poetry, my life, except for the last ten years, I did not even think of reading or writing poetry.
While the mime artist in me was poking my mind and I was waving my rebel flag and attacking...
Well, my dear girl: do you not realize that the past life without poetry is the center of poetry? Example…
I'm at my desk at the bank and I'm staring at the garden of the school adjacent to the bank, having done all the work in one go and asking my manager to give me more work:
The breeze of your heart, while my mind was in teaching, even in the boring atmosphere of the bank, while you caught a romantic trend...
If a softly playing music is now Mozart's symphony, and because I ate my mind with cheese and bread, there are places I'll stop by after work, of course, I'm looking for a job again.
When I can't know where I belong, the lights are on, it's dark early?
Before, of course, I am a high school volunteer, after all, I am at the forefront whenever we come to a decision with the class, which we demand from our teacher with all my cuteness...
And years later, it should be me on the teacher's chair this time, the teacher who will postpone the exam...
Then someone pokes my shoulder:
"Where did you go my rose again?"
Yes, my dear inner director obviously noticed my stagnation:
“You have done everything you need to do today. You leave early tonight, your house is far away. Or wait, get on the bus.”
What ambiance is this?
Which profession am I?
Student.
No, teacher.
No, the banker.
No, nothing.
Every inch of the sky.
Love's alphabet and your embezzled heart to poetry and poet...
It is love that exalts you beyond the familiar.
