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Where I reigned in squalid solitude, I concealed the pains of death in my riding eyes.
They are reproaching me with words emphatically on their toes, and in my ancient soul, thrown in a rag, my conscience is like a pillow to which my dilemma is, of course, added.
It's not enough.
My rasped heart, which is the turbulence of love, which I always know as a virtue, the wind that licks my face at a point and time that I do not know.
The people I bid farewell to before the longing expired, and that my identity is constantly evolving.
I step into the day and blow the sing in the air of my hometown, sometimes I stumble upon the sing anthem, which I am about to destroy every time I whistle, but it is also revived by pain.
A joke that is read.
A fairy tale that touches me.
I'm like a lantern hidden in the eye of the table, the battery has run out or the tears I can't shed, whoever will pay me for the pain inflicted on me.
Hey, waiter, give me back the tip you scraped from me.
Anyone who ignores.
A sentence full of kindness that does not continue, and I sew with short-term poems in a warehouse of words, on the toe of my slipped sock and the cardigan on my back, and here is a staggering universe.
What's wrong with me?
And here's a divine touch, in my hand, I'm attesting whether my ruler length has grown or not.
Hidden in my property tax forgotten in the tax office, maybe the buyer birds, now I'm escaping from the darkness in which I'm hiding my temple no matter what time I sold it.
The rubbish words of my feelings, maybe like a cat abandoned by its owner, the murmurs hidden inside me, and while love is the nourishment of the heart, as I have just presented, the heart that I know as a virtue but turned into torture, without any race or lineage, is falling hard, even though the leaves have already dried, leaving its branches just now. they do.
Horizon at the level of my mind.
Hope is the hump of the heart.
Of course, the sycophant of love, the blue voyage, the blue sky, and the wind that stirs inside me will soon turn rough and make a mess.
The one I supply.
The evening pass of my nights and sorrows, the horizon of my nights, opens towards the horizon.
How do you come to yourself, it's easy to go.
I am like a tree in a cemetery, towards an endless land. There is a man inside me whose feet and faces are hidden behind a broken glass. I say I'm going, I can't go. I can't stay either. I've always been exiled to lovers as soon as I hit them. A May knot, blind love I burn my chest, I melt.
How many more fire sick nights. I leaned my forehead between two walls. Straightening on one side, I roll over on the other.
From the frosty smiles returned, words fell. I know many unclosed old notebooks.
The tattoos of love that are etched into the bone carry the pain beyond the city. My absence is wandering desolately. The root continues, getting heavier and deeper.
My heart overturns, I make with love.
The sparrows on my chest, do not pluck the wings of the sparrows on my chest. Oh how much it hurts today without you!
The lines of light are telling its secret to the edges of the sky, today the scream in me has never stopped!
Your crescent heart and a lost diary are actually my lost yesterday and my loved ones, moreover, when I was very sure that I was loved, you are back when I say my heart, which I counted in my life as if I had suddenly passed on the treadmill and covered not even a single step, but when I was a loyal follower of the pendulum loop, my heart, which I took care of with my apology. I ran back.
A tavern music that I have never been to and listened to.
While it's only a matter of time before I offer my condolences to the life where I planted love and mourned when I was the organ of the heart, and wanted to stay in seclusion forever in a makeshift hut, but I managed well and badly with the last crumbs of a ragged existence, and here I am, starting the story and going backwards, my feet go backwards though I stretch out my hand. While I was so sure that I would touch it.
Is it because I have adopted a pen and a pompous solitude while I have judged the love of the vastness of a melancholic life, a question that I cannot answer yet:
Who are you from?
While it is a sign that I have been caught with the feelings of withdrawing all the information that has annotated on my identity and hanging on a blank page, while I can't resist the fact that I am stuck with my heart that accompanies the pen's pain.