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It's not wild dreams, it's what I knit. That single drop of tear that dripped from the shroud of the night when you were the addressee of a silky sadness.
In order to meet with mercy.
I am not very popular, whose mercy I actually keep hidden inside me.
What I reported from the climates is my transparent wound left in the summer.
In the middle of a patched dream, the monolithic melancholy is in the folds and here are the feelings that I have experienced as much as I have lived on earth while I was the scholars of loneliness, which I escaped from the re-used shadows.
Skin of the night.
If I'm hanging on, the compass of yesterday.
The last commandment of the borrowed day, which I went to and from the edge of the abyss, where I divided yesterday and rounded the syllables into the hours.
I overcame this day from summer, after all, it wasn't ready for September, the heat of the day and the depression it caused.
The images were marauding, how rebellious, and how my inner voice was triggered in this last moment of my life in its navigation with my heart eye, and here is how the dominant sun made my fever even higher.
Whatever I'm hoping for is pending.
As for a poem that I put on hold, I write and erase, as if I raise the bar and remove the nail from the nail, and while I can't get rid of the pain on my forehead without wiping my forehead, I am somewhat relieved of the first rain of the season that accompanies the night with a perusing scent and its magic.
We overturned the big summer to write.
We wrote summer in sweat.
What remains of summer is the words of destiny that I cannot write, but I know that I do not care about my Lord and the pen that sighs in the night, in my tongue and in my heart.
If there's a pen, I'm in.
Even if I exist, the fate of the pen, which sometimes functions as an automatic hand when I am not in your sight, is of course imprinted in my destiny.
A single floor hidden in a square.
Infinity while hidden in a color.
Maybe a fuss breaking from the rhythm of the heart, and here are the sentences on the mezzanine floor where the words fall like a vine leaf, and the cloth I put under the tree fills up as it fills.
I'm going back to yesterday, very, very far back.
I remember my enthusiasm in high school and reading from the pen of a writer I love like it was yesterday.
Bless your soul dear Leo B.
“Those fallen leaves gathered in the garden of our house… I see heavy feelings and the return of work; all the leaves that fell in the garden ended up in the trash can.
I go without being lazy and empty the trash can and all the dried leaves in the living room of my house and I walk for hours, the rustling of leaves I hear is almost the voice of God calling me and living itself.
That emotionally charged passage I remember from a book I read a long time ago.
It's the season of June and winter, and I think it's the season to do sports, especially walking in the rain.
My favorite thing is to listen to the sound of the falling leaves calling me, and like the dear writer, I always feel like I witness that dried leaf that I step on on every walk I walk, and I cry with the leaf.
These meaningful sentences that I read in high school can have the same effect on me today.
The only constant is change itself.
As much as I haven't changed, I'm sick of life and people, especially if someone realizes that I'm talking to leaves, I'm not a little ridiculed. Actually, this is a matter of ridicule, which is valid for many subjects, because I live in a time and place where sincerity is not accepted. How my friends from yesterday are traveling in the mountains of Mountain when I can keep my high school mood.
The texture of my age or my grief?
My eyes are the same color.
What I reflect and dislike is that if I am not an adult, it never prevents me from being a child, and the people who make me feel strange are also because the values I gained in childhood and the teachings instilled in me have not moved on, just as the years move on the calendar, I still use my humanity to do something concrete with ease, and a smile and a smile that I gift with my humane heart. a sincere greeting makes me easily offended.
The city I lived in when it was a huge metropolis.
I am surrounded by hundreds of people who have nothing to do with poetry.
And when I want to be read to people as flowers, or as precious beings monopolized by hope and emotions, and that's what backfires and hurts me even more.
Running away from the day is the one that forces me to do this, while maybe it's people.
And as the night bleeds.
While I drank the night.
And as I unleash the energy and luminosity I have stored into the night.
My relationship with the pen is that he also has an hour of honor and that we put the day in a sack like fallen leaves and meet with the night secretly, but I also disclosed by writing: of course, when I was the only witness to the love of the night and the pen, I always write and run before the lost day of yesterday in his ignorance, Mevla' And the beauty of expressing this is that I don't give up hope for tomorrow.
Although I am aware that I have thrown hope out of the blue as much as I am pessimistic, the universe jumps out of the chimney in the dead of night into my bosom.
I'm reporting my pain.
I report the lost shouts of the day.
I am submitting that I miss the season and September and walking on leaves so much that when the rain accompanies me, let's see that while the mask on my face and the pandemic are not over, I postpone most of the things that come to me, so I wait for the night and the hour of the pen to be transported to another world.
The rain accompanying the first night of September made me happy.
Here comes September with guilty.
I ran into your arms with my supplication.
Whether my mind is in the air or not, how can one enjoy life, if one is not a little fluffy and focused on the horizon, and here I am flying from side to side while my skirts fly I don't care who is oppressing the pavements and my heart, neither the city nor I care who does what or how they talk to each other back and forth.
Since there were not many people I talked to, I came running to my appointment with the city and the night, and at this hour of the night, everywhere and my eyes are shining.
I still managed to remain innocent, I think, at least in the inviolability of love and pen, I do not think that I am untouchable even a little bit.
If only God knew.
I wanted you to know too.
Why should I hide from the servant what Allah already knows?
And here's bingo!
After all, this is what happened to me, but people want to have a little trouble with someone, and since this is not possible, I pour my heart out to you thanks to my pen.
The city of love.
My dear heart.
But while people put a lot of money on my heart, I also live and love and write for the sake of God, not for anyone else.