I swelled like a peacock to every emotion that came to me

Vibrate the dove inside

In fact, touch your trembling loneliness just once

Get into the texture of the softness you feel then softly

Show that you're not one of the regular lovers

and behold God will grant rebirth

When you are most desolate.

Poetry is a feast, and every verse written is painful, the pouring sand of your body, perhaps the trembling hidden in the hourglass.

On that Sunday morning when you built sand castles, you will fall on the road at sunrise after all, my dear childhood, you will grow up without knowing it, without predicting that you will fall out of people's eyes and they will not know that they will fall out of favor.

When you stay yourself, it's okay, but they will deprive you of your own private world and they will turn the hidden paradise into insanity and you will travel as far as people who will annotate your paradise and all their three-letter rebellion in order not to stay far away.

Who:

Who will say "Love", "Rose"...

Sometimes you will crave and as soon as you hear that thumping sound, your heart will rise and you will break from your body:

While you are waiting for the light to rain, it will snow and your heart will be plundered every time you say help.

As you remember, the world will remain snow with you, and your heart will turn into embers, and you will retaliate and trump people's hands, and you will shovel your pain, sometimes at the steepest angle, sometimes very wide, maybe you will reproach the world that comes out of narrow mentalities and ruminates on the road.

Sometimes, and the yarn goes to the market, while the rope does not come to the fore.

A thin snow will fall, you will be broken and you will break all the idols and taboos, you will revolt, you will stuff a battalion of pain into it, so to speak, your dreams will be laid in a huge coffin.

Remaining yesterday.

Save the day.

What will be left to attribute to tomorrow?

And you will become a stone of patience and you will crack in the middle and everyone will say you are crazy.

When your petite heart takes wings and flies.

When your ascetic soul rises to the top and endures the pain thousands of times, a scar will be left behind, because while you are living improvisation, you will go through long, long ways while you are living and loving.

The blood and scar on his wings.

So many people and secrets you've got.

You will bleed as much as you bleed, but without bleeding but without contraction, but unintentionally and unconditionally.

The rest of his life leading to the carrom?

As long as you keep your mouth tight while you are alive and when your way falls, open the mouth of your saddlebag and let all the remaining particles and endless syllables fall out, especially when you are your only luxury to love, write and obey, of course, you are only fond of your Lord and your trademark called love that grows as you give that hidden wealth the purpose of creation...

If the squeamish silence of the rearing wind, which I tend to an arrogant breeze, is transcendent, then every poem, every couplet and description of life's prancing words is my warning.

Sometimes a delayed journey and the reign of my spoiled self did not end, it was gone, provided by my loving balance.

The only prayer of the pen, who writes letters in a hurry, as long as he can't raise a homing pigeon whose day is left, is to open the face of every pain, as long as it touches every heart, the dream and guarantee of the cosy pen, you have happiness and exaggerate life...

I built my remaining life from abandoned dreams, besides, I was an orphan, I wrote poems and stopped writing, the night whispered, sometimes I chased a brace, and sometimes I lost myself.

He is the servant of the only God to whom I oscillate between being relieved and being lost, and to whom I am not grateful.

The meter wasn't bouncing off the counter in my chest.

The evil that I destroyed with my imagination and the faith I swept, sometimes I drew the lightning of the roaring sky on me and every time before I fell, I was throwing lightning myself in the middle of the road and fighting with the demon and the cruel with my resistance to stay on the road.

As consolation, your pen in your ear whispered by my inner voice.

Every word that was an earring was hastily embezzled on paper and I was the owner of my breath, not a prisoner of my soul, and while I never licked what I spit out, I was only consuming the hope that remained in me and I was blooming again.

If I drank raw milk, I was boiling every emotion that came to me, and sometimes I swelled like a peacock, but I knew that this feeling was not permanent and I was getting back to my old self and showing up with my humanity.

The season was winter.

Frost from the night.

It's the quintessence of mercy and it's freezing cold.

If it was a breeze, I was blowing hope, I was roaring.

If it is a craving, sadness was tears, I was cascading and multiplying.

Since I was the only rifle in my lane.

I was winding the clock from flat-footed images, and when the day passed and night came, I was knitting poems from the pains of the night.

The season was cool.

Whirling whirling dervish.

I was spinning like a propeller, and I was looking for ways without surrendering my soul. I went into the presence of my Lord with that expectation of peace and I knew that salvation was hidden in faith and I was breathing deeply in love and hope.

The season was dead.

The outdated day looks to tomorrow with hope.

The soldier of my faithful heart, every emotion and chest full of my words, a journey that I don't count as much as I don't think, I hide at every stop I reach, the side of the city and life that I can't reach.

For example, Kalantor shadows.

Shadows afraid of their shadow.

They also cast shadows and blunt other benefactors.

They oscillate between taking the initiative and dying.

A sun-drenched lover.

Nocturnal longing.

It is the story of a day that was harassed, every poem I stop to write, and I ignore the gloom in me...

Just like the song of being ignored.

The words I coined and the pen I am perched on are still in my womb, the couplets hidden inside me, the full moon hidden in my face, the lightning flashing in my eyes and sometimes the sky that I imitated being a star and commented on with my first name.

Words must bleed.

My rebellion is flat feet.

I am enjoying the season, dear ladies and gentlemen.

What's wrong with being a child?