Broken jugs in The Fountain of Sadness

I am a night when dreams kiss my forehead and my nightgown knitted with black dreams.

Like flakes falling from silvery faces.

I am a dead person who delays moving, and here I will pass away with my gong and desolation that will hit soon.

There are no braces, your life still consists of countless square brackets, my day.

Allegiance to sadness is a discovery that I set out on.

Let the mud trail remain and the battle will resume in the early morning from where it left off.

The broken jugs in the fountain of sadness may never see the light of day, maybe the peasant girl who blooms with roses on her face is perhaps enchanted, her dreams, the longing for the city, the intricate sadness while the hearts of the city dwellers are thrust into her bosom with a longing for the village.

There is no meaning to your pain and I feel cold like the morning of the cantor. The days we come to the end of May are like a hot glass mansion, like a dream longing for summer. So many parallels and meridians added from generation to generation on a summer morning assimilated by the winter killed by the spring.

It's like a neon of racialized emotions.

Sometimes the inaudible voice of the news and the password hidden in the subtitle.

Now whoever your soul is meant to be.

Who knows how many femicide now.

Sad allegiance, nice news, life is like a third page news.

Of course, out of necessity to set off, of course, a thousand pieces falling from the face still have no color. Dreams and facts are not exaggerated at all.

The veil of every dream is pulled over, and an instinctive plea is sometimes like a reservation to the window of love, sometimes leaving out of another feeling that cannot be noticed and falling into love on the road.

The fire of the city is growing and I am full of longing for the city, neither too much scribbling nor too many poems and dozens of stories that I did not show in the budget of the last year.

The sadness is so familiar and intrusive.

I can write thousands of sentences that signify sadness, then I put the dot and press the trigger.

It is a deadly attack, and while vigilance and death are hidden in the content, the silence of the grave is perhaps the only thing that can be valid for leaving the noisy and reproachful world.

While I write item by item, I write the titles of the pain inside me and dozens of stories from each item, while my existence was deciphered rather than telling what to whom.

My desk, considered a nook.

A hidden murmur in the day, of course, the accent of the night is very grumpy and I go to bed longing for the night before the day and I weave colors inside me and the hundreds or even thousands of sentences I wrote were not enough to explain.

The narrative is the day and a deception.

The five of the world I'm offended have their troubles in one place.

Maybe I should order a wreath for myself and here I am at my funeral, after all my body is in a coffin.

The lines I have woven with my loneliness and my tiredness does not end and here I am patting the back of the pen: it is the presence of the reader in my relationship with the pen, as if it were the only way to stay sober, and here is what I came across in their eyes.

A life that doesn't fall into line.

It's already past its shelf life.

Theroad of emotions and the souffle of loneliness, of course, like black coffee, I am generalizing to the road from the only emotion I have attempted in the first line, whereas every day is the same as the previous one. I can't say that because the feelings are familiar people in the role change and I was promoted from the leading role in life to an extra.

While my mathematical memory is constantly generating.

My soul is heavy breathing.

The heart already hurts the mind.

My body is too tired to calculate where it hangs.

Nor am I a car that changes lanes, and in my warehouse I am always after disappointments and endless troubles, so I have to leave whatever I know and of course, in the cathedral of sadness that is familiar to me, blessed souls trip the truth or confess to a priest I am a non-Muslim and my own I wish endless peace from my Lord as much as living my religion in my country.

The roof of your feelings has already flowed.

The floor has aged.

Ninety-nine villages waiting for me with my damp face and pen and writing the manifesto, of course, the ninety-nine villages that I was fired from, and the hundredth one I am still looking for, in fact, bored with myself, maybe even being excluded, with the rush to write another poem that will be the preface to my life, just in the middle of death.

My steps are lagging.

My words are sneezing.

Someone shouts from afar:

''Hurry up die.''

My color is pink, my forehead is white, but I am a useless person, the miserable and sinless disposition whose extravagance in everyday language my words actually advocate.

“Everything is out there and I am nothing.”

Goethe had read my mind so gladly before.

While I was pronouncing my existence, I got in line with my absence, of course, and of course I was already expelled from my desk and class, and of course the author also pronounced what I was thinking decades ago:

"What am I? Why am I not a singer? Who tells me I'm nothing? I started with the magic of narration. Continue. leave it alone. Nice to see. cool down. Transfer. Continuing to process the most volatile of materials, your breath.”

It's not a lie, you know, after all, someone who writes can realize his worth from the reflections in other eyes.

A lifetime as an unconfirmed person does not want too much.