I'm a prisoner of a poem that is the pioneer of the apocalypse that will break with love

My dreams weren't enough, make laments rain down on my grave: I bleed with a pair of wings forgotten in a bird's skeleton, and the confiscated authorities showered light on me: oh, it's not a melancholy sadness, but I lay my head on love and faith as a bed.

I have foggy walls and an abandoned rose, the native of hope and love, against which I have put up with so much cruelty that I can't resist...

I have dream authorities, and I leave an image that is a victim of a dream by my side, which I host and cannot fall, and set out…

I regret that I was captured by spring, and I write these lines in awe when the silence is not expired and the stories left unfinished...

Shesi of the five eyes of the universe.

My beating heart and my maverick pen.

Even if the calender is miserable, that road where the sadness inside me smokes and I hold...

My mercenary existence, my amorous dreams, and the ones I love the most, betraying love.

Spring is my prison, if love is my prisoner, when I was a prelude to a burnt song, where I took advantage of a poem that is the forerunner of the apocalypse...

The bald ibis and the playful shadows are the stories I wrote and told with the plectrum of love.

Many dreams, many words, many bondage, which I have purged.

I am revealing what I felt in the guise of yesterday and today, perhaps a forgotten dream in the jug of a fountain I passed, even if I and my beloved country were both a city girl, but my heart is roaring in the geographies of my country and at work, I imitate and fall in love with each village I have not been to.

The day is gone, the shadow of the night is gone, alone I am applying ointment to the unfinished stories and the rips of my soul that I could not sew like a tailor: what is the heart, what will change in the form of all this sadness, you know, I burst into laughter while I pat his back with the moisture of the darkness, I have an orphaned father in me There will never be a plane tree in many uk, no matter who I love, I just watch life from afar.

Nobody's doubt and my heart, not even from the ink circulating in my veins, my qibla.

If I am a victim, oppressed or sad, I go back and forth on dusty roads, and because dust escapes, my paper crumples from time to time: whenever I take the pen in my hand and fall on the road, when I lay down, when I know a gilded road.

Whatever I put up with, and sometimes the flying allusions that I terminate my identity, I punish my grave already.

I will not be sad because I am sad, and I continue my miserable life in the name of absolute truths that I do not compromise while you live in your happy worlds.

What is my heart if it were a traveller?

Whirling dervish, every syllable, every emotion that I bounce in my heart.

Someone is talking about honor.

Some people lead a glamorous life.

I have neither eyes, nor embers, nor to love while it is my last trump card.

While I am constantly offended and I have already passed through the possessions of the world…

The climate is full of humility, and every time I remember my Lord, light and mercy are pouring down from the sky, and I know that this is what love is like:

When someone turns their back and I just stay behind those who walk away.

Doesn't he deserve a sincere love, come and see how all people are full of love and turn their backs on someone, and here's backbiting, the demon is laying on the universe and more than anyone deserves, I'm quietly accepting my fate.

Comrade with my grief.

Confidential with my destiny.

Things are ending, but why this rush when it's only just begun?

Whereas God, who is a God as soon as he falls, I, who emphasizes how confident and indestructible everyone is, how meticulously I walk and take that blessing from the ground in order not to crush the slice of bread that fell on the ground and the tiny ant walking on the road.

I have no fear, especially when I have seen the bottom countless times in this world and I see the darkness that people hide deep inside, whereas my world is apparently dark, but they never know that the Divine Light illuminates my path.

What's wrong with dying, I crossed my path with the Black Angel just yesterday, even before, when I was blinded many times before.

So which one is worse?

Is it because someone pity you or hate you?