I pay the price with my words for my unceasing longing in My heart

It's like a dream under which I'm wedged

The arrogance of love to fall into

The demon who blew the curse and his disciple

Ants in my chest

Offal hidden in my heart

Guest memories in my yesterday

My day-faced mother, whom I host the night

A hunchback before dawn, perhaps of loneliness

Adjective, smashed heart

Retaliatory world and fate

And here I pronounce my pain

That locked drawer I can't open

I still loved you without asking

My identity is printed

The barrel hidden in my heart

Neither dampness nor fame goes out of love

Every day every night that I take advantage

Sadness is a miserable dream

Before the storm in my heart

A poem I tied my head, a song

The syllables overflow and overflow from my mind...

I expressed my desire in the sight of God and in my heart an unceasing sadness and the prayer I read.

I vouch for the night.

Also to my yesterday.

And to my love.

Birds flying on my axis and my evolving memory…

My words are hidden in my floor print.

I pay the price with my words, sometimes I skip meals and take pride in my hunger.

The fault line and poems of the crackling heart are the aftershocks of this love, sometimes the faint joy of this love, sometimes overflowing from the sky from the overflowing ground.

Your camber colors.

ferry of the breeze

My ripping words.

Solfege hidden in the left key of the scale and here I am counting one by one.

If I'm a spelling mistake, it's yesterday.

And every syllable I report.

And an axis that grows with a heart that can be revived, an emblem, and the corrupt order of the world that breaks the night as my recurrent headache steals frost.

The stages of bereavement.

All that my lord has given.

I have to.

I'm sorry.

My temperament and.

Poems are hidden in my rips, and sometimes the edict that the unadulterated soul can't get enough of writing.

It is a wide, gigantic angle that I hide in and cannot escape from, and sometimes I look away.

The roaring sound of sadness, its cracking cocoon in winter.

In Snow, I fade when the sun comes out, and when it's night, I close inside.

Somehow poetry.

As the endless wrath of the milk port heart is branded, my words will age.

I like it seasonally.

I feed on my pain because I never get along with my temperament.

I am the wind of Shams.

Heart spurred.

The recklessness of tomorrow.

An overdose is love that divides my day.

And my words that I know as a cure and my endless prayers.

This endless mystery, while my singing inner voice is the call of eternity, perhaps where I stay in an imaginary fountain.

If there is a break in the wind of the pollen flying like a flower bouncing from season to season, the tales and dreams that I imitate like a picture hidden behind the curtain of hope, the memory of yesterday's hope for tomorrow, maybe like a cloud hidden in the fore of the changing sky, of course, are the fugitive shadows of my tales of which I am the protagonist. My speech that didn't let go, mostly engaged in loving myself, which I couldn't do well in a lifetime and was kept at work, finally escaped from silence.

And my inner voice to which I gave credit:

Sometimes my dem is hidden in a poem.

Sometimes, my words and my love are the never-ending fountain of my heart, which I emptied between the lines while the body of my heart is hidden, like a cloak I knit for myself from the stardust flying around the tail of a shooting star when I was in trouble.