The gigantic pendulum inside me is working nonstop

You were a bigoted climate, sir, maybe you were independent and lamented when I loved you, whereas I opened wings to an even greater love, my favourite, of course: a love that rears up close to my jugular vein.

The season is scruffy: I just clipped the stars.

It is a human thing that goes through me and reflects outward.

My heart offers a treat, most of all, the heaviness and pride of living with my chastity, and I bounce like birds on the sill of this life that I can't sew in my stout silence, from one window to another and only peck at the clouds, and I know from afar that I am trapped and love without gratitude. I'm going through people's lives...

What if I was alive?

Whatever is not in the account will come and find me.

I couldn't even find Baghdad for a lifetime, and whoever I asked pointed me to me.

That confluence and bubbling waves inside of my soul, and I, with the stature of a traveling dervish, on top of me with a caftan, a patent leather black belt in my heart and my saddlebag on my back, I am spreading out in the bird market on the counter and I am laying my brood in the term principality.

My dawn beats non-stop and I count, I count from left to right...

I count my thinning hair.

I'm counting the dawn

I'm turning the pages and waiting for relative happiness From God, besides, He knows what I'm feeling, I just go into a trance and comb my hair in the sky.

I have a skill or I don't.

For example, if I have thousands of qualifications…

The doves of dawn bring water from a thousand streams, and the birdsong is still in the window of our house when the sun is just born, and as soon as my sun-faced mother washes her face, she runs to the window and feeds the birds with her hands.

The huge pendulum inside of me is working continuously and I am recording my feelings continuously.

I sew with the sewing machine inside me, and I sew my ripped seams, when I can't get any work done in the world, why all the fuss?

I lean my head on your words, whether they are original or not, a universe hidden in each of which I actually circumambulate, I burn before the dreams and guidance that cannot be spoken, perhaps the dilemma of my life.

If it's a treat, I collect my muse and a comb that accompanies the night, and I migrate away, the child in me, who I can barely get along with, whines and I cover his mouth with my hand:

No sound is forbidden, my dear self.

I finally managed to say that...

Labels rain sometimes and untimely departures and returns.

There is no way the soul can't go, there is no slope, and I rub myself: alone, I hit the ax on the stone and I don't worry anymore with the stones that happen to me, I just draw the outline of my life and suddenly the feri inside me is mottled and mottled.

Aren't there those who don't like those who love mediocrity, and those who say they love superficially and vanish?

Sometimes it smells like ginger.

Dwarf words load sadness.

The pain I sowed when there is no description, sometimes what quality people can't suffer, how many openings I now know, the humanity that I respect, sometimes the tired slopes in me that I want to destroy, the steep slopes and snow falls on my hair at every turn and I'm never cold and I love people without being cold, tens of pages sometimes my muse that I face goes away and it is a thought that takes me, I give it to those who go and do not come.

It's a one-way flight, mine is the night, but I can't even comprehend it, and I suddenly wake up with a thought stuck in my brain and every time I start, I lift my palate and then I lift my poems and hospitable words that I have stopped to write and hospitable words revive my loneliness.

The universe orchestra playing in the background.

I am composing the universe.

When I was the words of life, I cry loudly with my words and I am escaping from my inner bars and I am enchanted by the number of people more than I can love with their ignorant captivity and I draw a picture of the emptiness I perch, maybe I live the life that I could not and cannot find the opportunity to live every time I pick up the pen.

The route of the heart is obvious.

I scribble hundreds of pages but it's not enough anymore, I can't speak to those who scribble me, and I bounce only with my power of faith, I find my way with my messed up existence, accompanied by the loneliness that boils from day to night and in the night, I find my way and improvise when I live, love and write, I'm addicted to dreams and hope and here is my inner voice that I call good luck suddenly come to life: sometimes I host in a poem and sometimes I complete my unfinished stories...

What a sorrow, what a loss remains in yesterday.

What was said to my face and bingo if it was a lie.

Thousands of emotions and work that trigger my soul, I tie my head, and sometimes words stick to my throat, what is not written is actually a part of me, and I present as subtitles what I feel in eye contact with nature, which comes into color from color to color, as a subtitle, I tear out hundreds of sentences that emerge on the rough roads of the day and night and lean them on the paper. And of course, my head is love and hope and sadness...