If I spread wings to a little happiness, I won't hurt anyone
The blank white page winks at me with all the innocence, while the crumbs of dreams accompany love, and sometimes I come to fill it, while love is the place of the night when I was put on hijab and explored.
In fact, I am hidden in the sadness, the wind of sadness that accompanies every moment of my life.
I couldn't love the hot weather and with my extremely white skin, the rain must be accompanied by the hidden mercy of the heart, and the crops must grow, then the snow must fall softly, and here is the summary of twelve months, rain and wind.
Fugitive syllables emerging from seclusions: not words, but syllables, even letters that spread to the alphabet with their clipped existence, and none of them is enough for me.
I dig my grave with my nothingness, while my life does not pass without words, my life leads to mass murder, whenever I am buried in books and I am reborn in the identity of another author.
If reading is writing where love begins, then I describe writing as a longing for eternity, which I acquired later.
Infinity.
Maybe innocence.
What I have counted from the end to the end is that I escaped without being seen by anyone with the tunnel I dug when I started and left almost everything, even my temple was bombed.
I am the existence of your nasheed.
My heart full of kindness, you know, was broken with kindness, and then I was hurt most of all, and when I was love, I was a protector and overflowing with love.
Sometimes a river.
Sometimes a harsh wind.
It was not enough, a waterfall that I was caught in floods and never slowed down: sometimes I cascade, sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry.
I fired the day out of the door, and here is my bad hour, of course, for individual reasons, my desire to read and to be read every time I touch myself.
The bloodied child bride.
Your dead dog, whose body is thin and fragile, I saw on the road.
Life continues where it left off: what's more, what's less?
So what, if three or five women are victims of violence or even three or five children are slaughtered, filth shadows…
My head is throbbing and I never use painkillers.
My ears are ringing I think someone is remembering me.
If I spread wings to a little happiness, who am I hurting?
What will change to the pavement when a few deviant people are cross-legged while they get mad and attack left and right?
It is the middle of the day and a group of children passing by: ah, beauties, how wonderful that you are so innocent and pure. What is that? A, where is your mask, what if you don't stand so close to each other? Children, you are our future, but we are not treating you well.
Dear children, your beautiful beings that I can't get enough of loving and looking at...
And you know, I'm a child too: come on, tell me, will you accept me among you?
Wouldn't you even do it before?
How do I pay you guys, after all, I was your hard worker, though it didn't last long, but my teaching adventure. You both loved me unconditionally, just as I fit the whole world inside me, and don't look at me how I can't fit in the sky, especially when the subject was love.
It is true that I dug wells with a needle, and other wells that I filled with disappointment and dug again in another medium.
It is also true that the madman who throws a stone into a well is actually a saint, and while forty people can never get that stone out.
It is also true that someone stoned love and love, but how the universe and the Creator have crowned love and love, and here is my function in the cycle.
I have been reading the articles of authors for the last two days and another writer I feel close to and how can I not have mercy on his soul?
Dreams are scorched.
Colors are fading.
Love is losing momentum.
Me, all over again.
Do I continue where I left off or do I start over?
If you can solve it.
How can I not love myself?
The only sin is that a person does not realize what he is doing.
Bingo, my dear writer, do you have any doubts about me or we haven't been introduced?
The handicap of life and the carrom we came to.
Couldn't sleep again, what do you call sleep anyway?
Of course, I have dreams that do not stop and I can't reflect my dreams one hundred percent because I remember vaguely hours after waking up and cannot record them properly in my lower memory, yet I am very good at dreaming with my eyes open.
How beautifully said the poet:
I'm shaking as I hold on to you
I'm in captivity when I think of you
Whisper to those who ask
You said I was a porter
I am the porter of the earth, my darling
It's heavier than the heart
The earth's porters did not carry a load.
If it's not enough that I'm a porter of love...
Ah, dear poet, this season where words are added
How can I not love?
Will the roads be eroded or come to an end by writing, especially the longing I felt for eternity when I was writing.
I had the feeling that it could go on like this forever, across the flat surface of the sea.
