I fit a whole life in one night and the universe in a heart

Ambiguous shadows,

As the rush of a non-metaphoric love

What is the life i live

It will obviously not be enough to tell all these tales.

More than i live

Thousands of dreams I've had

Engage in love

Maybe for tomorrow

Behind the scenes of a secret to give

The final whining of the transparent soul

The self that will figure out the earth again

What is it to live blindly?

The words of loneliness are hidden

While in my syllables.

The dance is the last remnant of life: sometimes away from love, sometimes traps for love and orphans, the depth of the burning silence, both the leaking night and my leaking body, whereas the soul and the heart are on the alert: the longing of love clinging to a thread of cotton, mostly the desire to be reborn from the ashes of the past, and I fell annotation to the night. and I will be born again from the remaining crumbs of hope and my poems that will be the preface I will summarize the universe as much as I circumnavigate in my new life, my prayers are with you, sir, to the burning Divine Fire.

A wind that takes a handle on love.

The commutes hidden in deeds.

You can call it life or destiny.

In his testimony, I am an undefined continent of angels, while I am the head of the company, the confidant and separator of sadness and love, my longing subject is my alphabet that I no longer hide, that I do not hide, that I have annotated…

The breeze in my chest, sir, I'm addicted to love and strings of pearls made of ember syllables are in that cotton thread that connects me to the hidden life.

Cut off suddenly.

Doomsday will break.

On the other hand, I paint my soul with blue whitewash, while I paint a slippery ground color, sometimes gray or black, while the plain path of life that I love with hope in captivity and my soul is a single gun, before me came to pink and smooth ends.

A bandage sometimes clings to the story of the poem.

Sometimes bales of hope and snowflakes in the dim light of the night, my words tied with haste and string to my grave, and here is the herald of my rebirth, my childhood, where I skipped the pavements with a pencil, my childhood when I played hopscotch, and sometimes when I was neglected, whenever I smiled, whenever I burst into sobs, maybe with the words of blunt syllables and princesses. who turned my feeble existence into a raising world.

A life alone with my jugular vein.

My Lord, with whom I get closer, and how many details I have not seen, how blind I have turned out to be for a lifetime, and here is that impasse hidden inside of me, while my hand was spinning, while the feelings on my axis that I was the satellite of prevented me from being a prototype creature, and the dreams that I was detained, even on the periphery of reality, are not the dreams I dreamed and an elapsed life, but come and go. The one that presented me to me in my hidden childhood when it was the only story that I reproached and imitated about loves.

Loving relentlessly, sir.

Anniversary, maybe almost every night of your life, I go from dark to light one step after going to the carrom, with an elegant pronoun that I sometimes obey the imperative moods, of course, a doyen hope and a smile are hidden in my lower memory, the story of humanity that I do not doubt is hidden in every speck of my soul, almost every living thing. in a heart.

The sentences and verses that the poet utters in the morning are the revenge taken from grief and life, sometimes informing the bibliographical dreams and sometimes the sad wind inside.

While the guide of the night I consulted was the clouds hidden above and the unquenchable Divine Fire love with its badge attached, like a blind lead bouncing in the dominion of the love of the universe and here is the blind spot of the universe, where I sometimes get stuck in mud, sometimes I fall into wrong, and human and poetry were born from rhymes...

Every color tells my story, sir.

Every absence of you is equal to a poem, and the silence has expired, like the stardust I sprinkle on the singing syllables of your inner voice, and with my eyes flashing, I write the story of oblivion, sir, and in order not to forget, I stick the pen to the virgin white paper...

The wind broke the dawn.

The universe was destroyed, and the devil, who by force and deceit set deceptive traps, was dug with his own hands.

I found myself in a dream pit.

Just when the story is about to end...

However, life and night are just beginning:

In a heart where I fit a whole life in one night, my soul has found peace in the shadow of the universe and indifference, sir, most of all, my eyes fixed on the hill when it was a level of nothingness, and of course every poem I wrote of staring loneliness...

I invested hope and poetry in my dreams, it was the confluence of love with a hangover rush, with the ragged cries of longing for the future and stubbornness.

Broken words I chain

I kissed and put on my head

The scent of blessing and the dedication of love

A rush hidden in the crumbs

I'm a blind poet or a runaway traveler

Invasion of letters escaping from the alphabet

Come see;

I should be the thirtieth of your life

The cry of thousands of sentences that I can't get enough of saying

Sometimes the subjective tone of giving a fatwa

A mob shouting love

The nature of the time playing blind