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When he hunted my dreams, I was a wilting flower in the hunter's clutches and suddenly it started to rain: my God and witness that I was burned.
With my sadness, I pulled the shovels and the pain and the pain, the endless rugs and the night I put a quilt on me, a hidden rebellion, of course, my share of joys, in the history and that tragedy.
It was the lane of love, where emotions drifted and I faded.
I was last.
The fugitive hero hidden from a tale that never had a head, and my red hat, maybe my witch's broom, come see I've blown the dust away, I'm the fulfillment of my dreams at the end of my dreams and the old joys and regrets that suddenly disappeared from my hand and left their traces and here's my adventure in dreams where I'm dressed as a mischief Did I press the destiny called pen?
The hook in my heart.
The storm in my soul.
Time has come to an end and the blood of the frozen season, and here is the summer sun that I shoveled, the summer garden, the milk bottle, the water globe.
I was coming from a stout time, and I drank as much as I could, dreams and happiness and a childlike love, an enthusiasm, a whining…
Sky is my shadow, my anger is twisted.
The person whose hand I kissed, since I couldn't bend their wrist, we shook hands with the spring inside me, after all, it was me who succumbed to me and I assumed the victory, of course, the pendulum inside of me, out of the flowerpot, the dead and miserable butterfly in my hair.
The lightning that gave the sky's memorandum, and here is the diary of my being caught in the rain.
My feet going back and forth, of course, in the footsteps of soldiers, that tunnel that suddenly recurs in my loneliness.
The irony of the dark, the diary of white and the embarrassment of pink.
Classes and lecture halls that I escaped from every night I fell asleep in the morning: the warning of my inner voice and external voice that intruded on my identity as both a student and a teacher, and I had signed under it, after all, it was my heart, after all, my life and dreams, which I gave up when I said the embezzler, and the poet once gave his warning:
A signature? Unreadable.
My existence, complemented by every row I perch on, in every deck I emerge from, is sometimes a tunnel of dreams where I step with my flag of turquoise sky.
Once I was there I was gone, as if I was chasing the dreams that were smoking from my heart, this time I lost myself and I signed my resignation petition from life again.
And a warning again from the clouds of the sky.
I still can't see in front of me, in the back window of a moss-green dream, perhaps the declaration of tomorrow, where I slid in the past:
Think dad, think.
Maybe it's the life that I dropped out of my pocket that I didn't even think about, maybe the life that I suddenly got out of the hole I fell into and left my mark on the gigantic garden of the universe where I laid on the table every dream hidden before me and threw myself on the table with my soul, sometimes I became a flower, sometimes I bloomed, sometimes I became the sun and I followed the poet and I was boycotted after every signature I put under it. I am burning with the hope that my dream world, in which I crawled like an abandoned baby in the courtyard of the mosque, will certainly come true.
Bury my yesterday.
By killing the day.
Is this poem really going to come out tomorrow, while my only way is to write and hope, while my way is through writing and hope, and the dream boat that I have annotated with my unreadable signature, maybe even I was convinced that I was never real, and yes: