It's like I'm a poet drinking loneliness on a winter's day
They say the seasons have a language. Just as pearls are lined up on a string. It is laid out one after the other in the seasons. To speak: To speak the name alone, to grapple with people like a sailboat. Seeking people who understand and speak the language of the seasons. Lifting the mourning of the blankets on the ground There is a child in the seasons: His name is winter, he is delicate, his face is beautiful, his words are beautiful, if you come back, it will be very sad. He lifts his head and takes a look. Inside burns you, outside me. But without him, the world is incomplete. Loneliness seems to have been inherited from her lover.
Is it loneliness
When it burns your heart
Is it his not burning
Is it really loneliness without it?
They always say
To love or to be loved
my answer is clear
Love
You can never fully know your presence in that heart
But it has already invaded yours
It's hard to accept at first
You can't handle this situation
Longitudinal denial
However
You leave yourself in a void
You understand how you were conquered
Then neither denial nor denial nor acceptance
no one can save you
You love blindly
with everything
only if you really love
You don't expect a response from him.
you just love yourself
From afar, without knowing you
What speaks, what does your tongue keep silent
But your left side never stops
When she's happy with someone else
you will be happy too
The world is divided into summer and winter. A majesty in winter, a stillness. Like scales, one of its wings is heavy while the other is light. He talks to a lover when he is calm. His lover sings poems in his language. He speaks, the poet is silent. He is silent, the poet speaks.
How beautiful it was in that winter garden,
The deep-running sleep of roses.
The poet makes us talk about winter in these quiet times. Don't ask, the flow of time at these times is magnificent. It blows the literature, the wind, kisses the poet on the forehead, the innocent rain, sometimes spreads the white on the ground. There are innocents who stare at the night in bewilderment, and their tongues call for winter with a soft melodic rhythm. He feels every rain, every frost and every white that falls on his heart belongs to him, A glove in his hands, he looks around with his eyes and mutters a few lines to winter.
Winter is coming, it is silence and yellow.
It was handed over to me with slow leaves.
that gorgeous print
I'm a snow book
A wide hand, a field
I'm a waiting circle
I belong to the world and its winter.
Think of a heart that beats on a shovel at night with a dream. Spreading snow on your sad heart. A heart that burns like a stove. This winter speaks to the heart. Then a glance... Then a heartbreaking flower shot into your heart.
It has been snowing on it for many years
With a sad heart, a moonless night, if
If you can't go to bed with the pain and sleep
That heart is not consoled by springs and summers
And nothing, oh pale, yellowed seasons
It doesn't get sweeter than pale darkness.
But that view changes. Drinking solitude becomes a poet on a winter's day. Some reproachful, somewhat hopeful words. There is a love in winter, a love in the poet. A lone groan, an ear-filling sound of a name. This voice in her will not only freeze people, but even birds. It is impossible not to be reproachful, the offspring are clean in the nest. It spills from frozen lips.
A little sweetness, a little delusion. Heart wake up, heart look, winter is winter again. The sun was trapped behind the clouds, the winter spoke and the poet wrote. There are only a few lines left written on the leaves.