I have secrets waiting to be discovered in the depths

For countless reasons, I was condemned to absolute loneliness.

This letter that I wrote is the rematch of yesterday, but I kept myself hidden in the compass of both yesterday and your life with cold voice.

Clusters of dreams, my dear friend.

I have knitted clouds from the fall.

Since I am loyal to my sadness, my love and my Lord...

With a edict once given your loneliness.

If it is a journey to peace, which limb should I pay as a diet?

My fingers are jointless.

My love is without reproach.

My soul is wandering and seasonless.

The genocide is your sadness and my traveler's face is hidden.

I touched a cathedral.

If the fold is the fold of your love, I have to go up much more until I reach the supreme station.

The face of the season is dirty and broken in my soul.

If the fault line is your life, I hit my heart as I lock myself up as much as I can't escape.

It is not a love, on the contrary, the origin of my enthusiasm and joy of living.

My child from yesterday is still on his way to school…

My high school girl from yesterday is still on the road.

What if I could see the face of that adolescent love once again?

In the corridor where I was waiting naively and to hear a touching word from your mouth…

Did I tear up the discolored pictures?

Or is it a loyal follower to the unknown, that confused flower that sighs in me?

I do not lie: I am the flower.

I'm not lying: I'm the star.

I have no lie: I am poetry.

My feelings that I idolized in every sense, and here is my fondness for the Divine Fire and which I willingly transcend.

What is obvious is that my reckless heart is transparent and gigantic to those who love tired and obsessed.

Layers of the sky.

The inaccessible altitude of loneliness, and I am different, I did not dissolve and disintegrate into thousands of pieces even once.

If in denial…

What a gamble.

If the allegation is…

I am not lotto, but I was very fond of playing lotto in my childhood.

Where should I hold it?

As much as I hold on to life and love…

I am inconsistent, both while loving and without attitude.

Out of love, my bundle and pancake and my dowry chest are both gilded and my star chart.

Sometimes if they say:

Your star is low…

Although they sometimes say:

You freaking out…

Even if they don't say it, I know what's going on inside them and my eyes that don't close, sometimes I close both inside and outside like an inverted tulip...

My fabric is silk.

My voice is exuberant.

My presence is passionate.

I'm not under arrest, but he's under arrest.

I'm not glue, but there are some sticking to my neck.

I am a rough terrain, I love the steep slopes the most, while going up and down the stairs inside me…

What if the rips I sewed were hidden with these?

My unseen eyes.

A bottle of water on my head that I planted

I'm headstrong sometimes.

Sometimes I sit crooked and speak truthfully.

My inner voice, of which I am a regular, moreover, after a lifetime of fallow and picking up my pen, one by one, its tongue thawed.

Billions of neurons in my brain and its endless.

When I make an emergency call...

Sometimes it causes fires.

It's not just my existence.

No offense at all.

While I have secrets waiting to be discovered beyond what I realize, hidden in the deepest…

Is it a person who loves and writes out of the blue?

How and how…

I'm happier than I've ever been when I'm scattered like trash and my head is high. both and my color is pink and white and here is the red dawn and its song is your hope and my passion while love and writing is sometimes a novel, sometimes a poem, sometimes a story.

I am on the way of the Divine call...