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Even if I write thousands of poems, I am still the child of the first day
The mild season hidden inside me and a stylish smile hidden outside me.
While my destiny and my fortune and my chest and my chest and what I don't think are my slogan as much as I pronounce it, my feelings and your belief in the power of the Divine Wind blowing is the most significant.
The sky is roaring. The heart is snoring.
If it is love, I am the spelling mistake of love, because I am a poet, because I am a poet, because I am familiar because I am an obvious indomitable breeze, and I am also a hidden Star in the world, where I present my pen that I love, bestowed by the Lord.
My resilience and unquenchability and my smile because I am a poet and poetry.
I just wanted to dream.
It was night. It was cold from the morning, all the memories of memories left, a cry in the middle of the endless days, it was after the night that couldn't be a morning by itself, its low voice in the early morning, actually the crumbs of ageless memories hidden in the piggy bank of loneliness, whereas the peculiar tremors of the past were sad in the early morning, whereas loneliness was in the humming gaze by the sea, now heaps are lined up with the residue of the past, whereas loneliness is higher and heavier than all, only ice-cold toes, orphaned dreams left behind years, whereas the frost in the early morning was the frost that crushed and dried their throats, here is the weight of loneliness on my back, the sweat flowing under my deprived shoulders again. without you.
I just wanted to dream.
My poem and my poems and my singing heart.
My pain. I guess. My chest. I am loved. I opened. I'm faded. I shine. I'm out.
The images and poems settled in my heart's loom and the people I fell in love with for a lifetime when I defeated them, and the bitterness hidden in my sinew, the temperament buried in my heart, and my poems that I knit from the senses, to which I add a raging wind.
My day is my principle and my compass and my love, where I am exposed to a breeze that starts from the night and here is the Day of Poetry.
Should I forget first or is this a mistake? While it was hidden before me, I fought in different lanes and was the last front I opened in my heart, I was filled with love in the breeze of poems, I emptied with sadness and I always loved.
What is it that I have written thousands of poems because I am still the same enthusiastic girl as on the first day: on the way to school, in the corridors of the banks where I worked, when I met my pen and when I was a pure and pure love, of course, my life is poetry, without getting lost in the spiral of poems. My veil is necessarily images.
Finally, when my Lord has given me my pen and my heart, how can I not write, how can I not love, how can I live without love?
The universe is loving, just as poems are the flames of my soul, every speck of my heart and its broken pieces, and at work, I pour poems out of my pocket and when I am condemned, I always become a poem and open it in hearts, and I believe that I am loved as much as I love because I am a poet because I am a poet because I am human.
That corridor is surrounded by darkness and that image that turns into poetry when I touch it, and the joyful poems hidden in my heart and I came across my pen and poems on a day when I was lost in my life, and that day I have been writing poems, essays and stories for ten years without interruption.
Poetry is my rank and my epaulette and my wind and my soul and my heart and…
While poetry is also equivalent to smiling and breathing in the sight and presence of my Lord, who declares my love and power of faith, which Divine Love grows and enlarges, and my existence and immunity, which is spread and wrapped in poems.
If it is a pronunciation, a poem or a vigilance and a hadith hidden in the depths of my soul and a poem in which I am enthused with love, how can I be a poem, how can I not write a poem, how can I not love the universe, since I am in pursuit of eternity, how can I not adopt a verse in which love resides, since I am the motto And the universe is made of poems...