I have knitted thousands of poems about you from the sadness left inside me

You trigger my soul and I'm on the alert for a lifetime.

I come across the city in the revolt of an image, and I wear poems one by one with the stature of a badge on my collar while I am also a scholar.

I am writing to you from a climate where thousands of emotions invaded the night and sleep is the eve of my self-respect and growing love.

My pen has no nationality.

Your words inside me when the caliber is unknown.

Sometimes I'm in the flight, sometimes I'm in the pilot cabin of the plane called a pen.

I took the ferry yesterday, if tomorrow, maybe the car is a day later, it's a flat tire that's left behind, so I put on winter tires and fell on the road, after all, city is waiting, the snow in front of me is so impassable that I will snow.

My enchanting heart.

Love while it is a mischievous and divine touch.

It's the season I'm a regular, and the gun called a pen while I'm holding it to my temple.

The god in me.

Order outside.

What harm can come from a love that goes to excess?

It means that I have knitted thousands of poems from the sadness that remained in me: I see love, respect and nobility in my family; I have so many reasons to live and hope.

My words are the history of a secret, I am a scholar, the greenery that I swiped from poems and scrub scrubs is reflected in my eyes, and sometimes my eyes shine with stars.

I am also a regular in sadness and that mourning is now considered a law.

The children who died, the innocence that died, and the women who were murdered in their home:

No one should talk to me about love anymore.

Innocent and innocence.

It's great to stay a child, but come and tell people about it now.

The full moon in the compass.

The rose garden inside me.

The main road and secondary roads in my mind, many of which I could not evacuate, are gone, happiness and reforms of the country, while we were the indomitable guards of the republic.

It's hidden in my country.

My inner voice that I preach before death.

To the grave of the dead poet, whose ignorance I carried a bunch of flowers.

A general ledger, perhaps hidden inside me, I write the feelings in a credit book:

A pound of happiness.

What else was there?

A little love and tolerance.

So I wrote it in the notebook.

If it is a sublime level, if it is love and otherworldly feelings, the rebellious and here I have already opened the cork of the poem, I have surpassed myself and my heart, which does not exceed its time, is the quilt I pulled over me when I was mostly my feelings.

More than a newsletter day.

A compliment is love.

And the mind of man when it is full of teachings.

A dervish is a dervish when both his dream and his idea are the same.

And here are the wandering words, and here are the miserable shadows.

My heart, which I have laid on dozens of pages that I have built from a word of hope, of course, while hiding in the veil of spirit and sadness in the gigantic size of my opening, is almost the lyrics of the day I passed, the sun that goes to the power of the pen, and sometimes sometimes the sun rushes into the morning, and I escape from the night and fall asleep in the first light of the morning. where I jumped to the headstock and greeted the morning with prayers.

My heart is made up of an inveterate love.

If I am a regular, it is about hope.

Of course, while I was going to let it be destroyed and knit again in your expropriated life, I also gave a nod to the loneliness between my fingers, where the day and night when I promised the time with the pen registered in the genealogy of words, and I could hardly keep up with the speed of my mad heart, or would I write out of nowhere?