I knitted this life from the forelock of my dreams, to my Lord, to whom I offered the longing prayer I kept hidden in his cistern, and as much as I presented my heart, and the door of a heaven that I built for myself from my loving and hopeful covenants under which I signed my signature. my poems coincided with your mise-en-scene.
I was the signature of the season.
My favorite is my heart and soul, where I jumped step by step from my jugular vein, and the fire of love that I dipped into me was knitted, of course, on the ice-covered surface of the oracles once upon a time, my heart and soul, where rivers were actually enthused like waterfalls and sometimes I could not speak.
There must have been an expression that complemented life and emotions, of course, my complete being and tempered flirtatious wind is the handrail of my life, and my inner voice, sometimes underestimated by some people, but the dialect of the broken times when I fell to the ground and suddenly stood up and attacked.
Love from the days!
It was the sound that resounded and the word was not transcribed and flown.
Sometimes flying ink is my favorite book fragrance and destiny.
I crossed mountains and hills with my maddening temperament that accompanied my most impulsive heart.
Winter and its cold - Poetry
It falls in the summer, it cooks in the winter
Shading in summer, begging in winter
He growls in the summer, and in the winter
Summer fatigue is for winter comfort
The one lying in the august was kept by the blackberry
During the winter, widows took possession of the widows.
The peace I emulate and the child that I still keep hidden, and living with my side and the righteousness, I absorb the immature excitement of the love that escaped from my heart, sometimes I was astonished in the publications of love and that I keep pure with my purity that I give light with my color. dreaming
Sometimes I am like a giant cone rolling on the ground.
Sometimes, like a shepherd crossing mountains and hills, my pipe in my hand, my homeland in my heart, all my loved ones in my prayers.
If it is a glorious wind that scratches my heart.
If it is a raging season, flowers bloom in my heart.
Sometimes it is like a balloon that fades, but my favorite is my inner voice and pencil that mingled like swallows flying in my hair in the white cloud that I put on my favorite, almost like a swallow that is touched by my mother with a day-faced rush of goodness that embraces every emotion that comes out of my heart at dawn when I meet with my Lord.
A wind that I can't get past, sometimes.
What I emulate is my happy days hidden in yesterday, however, when I felt good when my path was not crossed with happiness, the rivers of love overflowed from my heart when I felt good.
Maybe a sunset.
Or a distress call while in love.
I want to present to all my loved ones, sometimes like a group of roses emanating from the rose garden, like a scent that I have emitted in the prayer of my life, which I knit from my burning, burned and scorched words.
The grounds in which I flee all together are the mangles of love that I sometimes wear with cannonballs.
And being a servant with his lamb, the great love I feel and burning with my pen that emanates every emotion I have hidden in me, and of course, I am recovering the tiny busts in my heart in the spring climate, sometimes I still suffer from the pain of the cold, and the pain of yesterday, when I was still cold
Of course fondly.
Of course by typing.
The face is very familiar love because I have always been passionate about writing like a sapling that has been retouched by the most pink and white and still it is possible to remain innocent, sometimes the waves that exceed my height never stop, but when I pick up every pen, I write with the happiness of reaching a calm mood. and the fact that it is not impossible to imagine a paradise where love is intertwined.
For example how real I am.
In my nervous temperament, my heart, which has become angry with the longing to be a milk-port, is the survival of my life, where loneliness has built walls and I am covered with the spirit of love with the taste of rusks, perhaps the taboos I destroyed idols with my pen, whereas Divine Love is also the peace of keeping my dwelling whenever the pen touches my sadness whenever the meaning of the meaning touches my heart. .
I can not deny the sadness in me.
I cannot destroy the hidden rose garden in me.
Perhaps it is the content of the love that I have reported; it is my gratitude and gratitude to my Lord, who created me from nothing at the level of nothingness, in which I dissolved and sometimes crouched and kissed the earth and caressed the earth. I will gladly aim to end the war inside me.
If it is a longing, I fulfill and mobilize my hunches as a subject
If I am a dream, the hope I knit from images hidden in the serenade of the love I fell into.
Even if I fall, it is the miracle of being able to get up again, not on the ground I lay on, but actually hanging and flying in the air.
