It's autumn again. Which dream are you crying out for? And it is hidden in the heap of loving images, like the birds that land on the skin of my heart and the loneliness that I kiss.
Pouring out of my shy heart in the office of the smile on your cheek.
I could have cleaned it with the tears I shed, but I stole all the dirt from the world and from the migratory birds that have no echo, I have stolen freedom and love, and the holy path I reach from prayers with my pen that I hold as a witness.
I'm in pain.
My poems have just fallen into the womb of the season.
Maybe I should have kissed the tears and rebellion that filled my eyes with Brown. I should have kissed the dimples.
I'm wild, maybe more than I've ever been in my life, and I crawl my dreams, sometimes with love, sometimes with blood, sometimes with blood, and sometimes with my heart, which I got fallow, I welcome love and loneliness on the balcony of the silvery stars escaping.
I am loyal to my sadness.
I'm trapped inside like a chest.
Oh, my good Lord, you know me and you are the one who makes me close to me, just as you are aware of my privilege since the first day I ran to you.
I killed the unconditional anger inside me.
You wrote my word, my great Lord, and you are the one who gave me love to love and to be loved.
I was always close to myself.
I've always changed lanes while living.
I always loved to love and I thought I was loved and I did not know:
It turns out that the human race, who thought it was hidden inside, and I was not armed with a gun: I am one and full of love inside and out, and here is the person I believe in from the people I differed from.
The vindictive world has no pronunciation for being loved.
I spilled the dirt on both my hands and fingers with potions, whenever the love of writing in me is ignited, I run after the words or are they following me...
My Lord, who loves my sadness.
I'm happy with the child inside me, and as much as I love, I've come to say that I love it with fear, and I poured handfuls of tears into my burning inner voice and the fire got bigger.
Poem are hidden in my heart.
Grief in the embers of love.
Since I was born with love, is it wrong to fall in love with love?
I'm harassed.
I'm stoned.
I'm crowned.
I have an opposing side, and my silence is perhaps the reflection of my self-respect that I've been away from and I'm sure of, and that I find solace with love.
Like yesterday.
Just my four-year-old self and the past where I felt love in its pure form for the first time. I haven't changed until today, I'm just injured.
It was the patch of love for some people and I also offered the stars hidden in my eyes to my loved ones and I submitted to the universe and I loved the people they didn't like until they were hit on my face.
With my child mind.
When I was a child with my adult temperament, I was still on the alert.
The gallows where I hung poems with the plectrum of love and many half stories hidden before, and here I am now trying to complete my own fairy tale.
I am sure that I am a fairy tale hero, and there are wicked witches around me.
Beautiful looking women.
Men of mind.
Kids and too.
It turns out that no one stays the same as the first day, so I think that I am unique and special, the more I burn, my dear.
I hide in a glass lantern, but now I know I'm naked, so I'm protected by words and Divine Love, and I build walls around me, yet they violate my boundaries.
I have no place to run to.
If I avoid.
What I missed is the end of the rope, where I am hanging, where I wash my heart with poems every day.
It is also the bisector of the pains in which I have reaped the fruits of so many emotions, and the starting point of the pains inside me.
I'm over being loved.
But aren't there those who are happy with my pain?
And those who take pity on me, and I don't need anyone's pity because I only want them from my Lord.
Sometimes I don't know what I want, but He knows the wreckage inside me and I rebuild my garden of paradise on earth every day, although there is no point I can reach with my day and life turning into hell.
I am the daughter of the absent.
There is a son, no one anymore.
I touch my nothingness with my being, and I refer to my nothingness, and that's when I am reborn and reach eternity.
Will it be a job without it?
That exceptional feeling and awareness that I am aware of in the voyage of eternity, of course, where Divine Love dazzles my heart and my eyes, and here my love grows even more and day by day I am getting closer to my Lord. I live my servitude to the fullest.
And this is what satisfies my hunger, and even though my head is not pleasant, every time I lean my head with the blessings of the world, to my Lord.
And the rest comes and I take wings in my presence in the moment, to tomorrows and hope and new miracles.
The name of the miracle is my name, especially as of now, it means to write while standing and my head is high, the miracle and hope that I can't get enough of pronouncing its name, and it illuminates at an unexpected moment, even in the dark and even at this hour of the night, with the privilege of being aware of the falling light, I have both forgotten and forgotten myself. while embracing myself...
