Do you remember that I love/you know the blue girl
In your long eyes that fit the sky
When we lived on the beach that summer
Do you remember i love/curly eyelashes
It's like the moonlight runs through your veins
He was lazy to live, he was lazy a little
How she carried her beauty
We hadn't moved yet when we were in town
He was lazy to live, he was a little lazy.
Ah, my heart, stranded on the edge of weary times, has perhaps been longing for the days when it was pounding: the crimson lights circulating in the lepiska hair of love, how honorable I was with my age and my color, and I never had a friend named Loved, until I met the poet.
my sadness
My freedom.
My identity.
The apocalypse will break, before the end of summer and the city is silent, I will not be silent and I will dedicate every story to myself because it is the story counter inside me that makes me and people love me.
The season in me was once upon a time. The adjectives that were never assigned to me as a faithful servant to my Lord, whom I adore, were not as warm as the hot water overflowing from the heart and glasses these days before the city.
My dreams are strange.
I am, of course, a commonplace captivity, and hundreds of sentences that I have found courage to write sometimes whistle me syllable by whistling rare words.
Hundreds of names and people I have met through my desolation.
The one that revives me is the one that I love, living in white so that the shadows of hypocrites and the hypocritical shadows that I sometimes run away from, which overlaps with my mourning, and that not a single speck of curse gets on me.
Colors consist of emotions oscillating in the river of love, and my sight, syllables, sometimes dissipates gloom, the crazy waterfall inside me, and a joy far from my age and mourning. As my hands touch my pen and my spelling mistakes, I destroy my spelling mistakes. Whenever I take refuge, my faith gets exhilarated and I run to my Lord.
Ruminants are idle talkers.
Those who breastfeed.
While my heart was a faithful soldier, I swayed under the spell of love, and while I was the harbinger of migration, in our gigantic love with the nightingale singing inside me, even though I prick my thorns from time to time as a gentle rose, my thorns are hidden in my petition of sadness, which gives a voice to the nightingale with a clear voice, and with my upright stance, I can even contemplate the nightingale. It is as true as yesterday that I was never held back by a hypocrisy or a threat that I longed for and was kicked out of closed doors.
The humility and enthusiasm hidden in every name and person that smiles and smiles, and here I put the pen into the oven: this love is only a matter of time to cook, and thanks to that magic wand that will also touch my sad existence, I will reach far lands and touch the lost accents, and then I will be sad if I am put down like a cloud, with the love deserved At the end of the sky dome where it is hidden, I will swim with my being that has become a milk port at that distance where I settled.
I love today.
The world has seen many demons, large and small.
Very cruel, very treacherous,
An iota of mercy,
A shot of hope
He had a handful of green in his hand.
Millions of nasty bugs,
thousands of animals
Centuries of effort
The one that burns.
Maybe your mothers are not guilty of this.
I wish they gave birth to stones
if you were a wall in a good job
The conscience is devoid of mercy,
These human-like creatures that do not fear Allah.
You are on your side, the water is ashamed to put you out.
Those who have no respect for nature, read this, wait, they will give up on fires.
Even though I stay true to my name, I love to take on other spirits and even though I am roasted in the heat like a desert flower that lives and keeps the love alive, I can write dozens of poems from every emotion that I find in my tender heart, willing to burn and burn, whenever I touch the mystery inside me at the honorable hour of the day.
