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In one word, the slogan of love I seek is your heart
Do you have hope, the words that I clipped while the receipt of your heart, tell me are you there for happiness? The secrets hidden in the dream season, every butterfly that lands in your hair is perhaps more disappointment than I can count.
The pictures I draw for my sadness, the willow joys of tomorrow in its uncertainty, the shouts pouring out at work, the unseasonable departures that suffocate my loneliness like a smile hidden in the periphery of my heart, the lines I have set out to write are as much as I report the poems that I feed on with my pain.
I'm in every syllable
It's not for anyone, you know.
I'm on the watch of a dream dealing with loneliness
When I can't take your pulse
Every unspoken statement is the pain of the heart that can be revived.
I totally escaped from life
In your sleepy eyes of the night
The damp pendulum of the sunken ship called sadness
I brag with my love
I imitate happiness
The dilemma of ignorance
The wind in your hair that I weave with words
Ah, the fatwa of the coy lover hidden in my two eyes
Farewell to love from my wounded life that I was tested with silence to death.
A traveler with a disability in the day, like embers that take refuge in the essence of the night, like the darkness in which I hide for the sake of love, whereas the beam of lights is gigantic.
This poem is the stranger of derelict dreams, or is the wind its liar?
Behold, the rest of yesterday; maybe the one who bows to the day is the farewell to the future, already to the day, and the foreigner who whipped the heart while he was a traveler, sings the song of the foreign now.
If I list what is on my mind, a fire will break out, my soul will give its last fatwa and my soul will run away from the intrusive shadows.
As far as I've been today:
I just went, I went far.
I'm more than I can't go and half stuck in yesterday.
I boycott a smile that spreads to the sadness, I feed the fire in my heart with my tears, and the springs of the heart yawn as I yawn, and whether the utopia I fell into is a farewell to the future of a life of pain, or is it a ground on which I lie down in every disappointment where poetry gets nicked, I write these lines with the reservations in my shattered dreams.
A breeze chills me.
The preface of living when the ant turns dark, of course, in the pattern of wandering dreams in which I fell as much as I did not fall, I rejected the facts and consoled myself with dreams.
Joints hurt, beyond the poems I didn't write and respecting my destiny, the crumbs that I pecked as much as I stuttered, the pen lingers with the spilled heart.
I wish for one word, one word from my Lord, a single word that I never knew, never used, since it is the lyrics of my life, I should hug and sleep to the composition of your beautiful tomorrows.
The forerunner of the apocalypse that broke out in silence, and the cover of the secret hidden inside of me, of course, is the only word that will save me from that fire that smokes inside my grave while it rains nonsense.
It's just one word I've been needing lately. It's like happiness hidden in a story without a beginning.
It's like the novel whose last word I've already said.
The peasant girl, whom I have fallen into so much unhappiness that I cannot write, and whose deception is hidden inside me.
It's in the middle of the page that I'm staring at like a spelling mistake, and the tears I quickly wiped are chasing the only word that will come out of nowhere.
It's still burning like yesterday, my dear.
A fairy tale that I have knitted from dreams in order to touch the future with my hidden presence in the day.
The perpetuation of chronic sadness, the tone of pompous words or a farewell is a gigantic mystery hidden in the bosom of the goddesses, passing through me.
Your existence is one step ahead.
Of course, our loneliness, which we leave from individuality and dedicate to the society.
And that one word: sometimes it is my last writing, to put the point in the trace of happiness of both the pen and the writer.
Poems that are copies of the heart, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying.
Sometimes the jester reproaches, the story of every pain hidden in the poet.
The breeze of loving to death like a flower that fades when it is not opened, the pale captivity of flowers that finally tumbled into the abyss, and here is one word: a translation hidden in the blooming earth, a translation that sometimes turns pale.
Like the rhymes I knitted from syllables whose skirts are ignited in a way that doesn't hold stitches to the poet, like death, and the pen's wheel I've been chasing before, like the rhymes I knitted from the syllables and a shadow that escapes into a corner when I'm cornered...
To the sky where I could not fit as much as I was tested.
The glimmer of the moonlight hidden in the sky, while it is the altar of my Almighty Lord, whose existence I take refuge in, and of the loneliness that I find solace in a mother's lap.
Long live the song where I blink with my star quality and sometimes fall into the shadows and love the darkness, but it makes me bright as much as hope insists on it.
That summit, which I imitate as much as I underestimate, is the motto of love, the altitude I will reach in the inviolability of love, the sermon of eternity where I hang on the ground for a moment even if I fall sometimes.
It's like pain.
Like that box I can't open and a letter hidden inside.
While I am offering my journey and my heart from myself to myself, if there is no one left as much as I underestimate, sometimes there is one around me, sometimes there is none.
If I am a color, one of the noblest.
If I am a number, my relative identity hidden in the texture of loneliness, which I aspire to marry with my eternal family, and my wish other than being accepted in the sight of Allah, from my Almighty Lord, to whom I wish a little peace on the steep slope called life.
While the only word I seek is the slogan of love, I am reborn in every spark of the Divine Fire and merge into eternity.
Every last point I know.
The beginning is only one word I know.
I am looking forward to you, so that my Lord may grant the hidden cure in the day as much as I call every day and get angry with my day without writing, maybe put the sleepy dwarfs in me to disaster and ask for yesterday's account.
The wounded child in me that I kept waiting for as much as I expected.
While living without expectations, the balance of your life is perhaps the horizon stretching out in front of me.
The peace and happiness in which loneliness is exaggerated and love is a consolation and I run with my face turned towards my Lord, the peace and happiness that I run away from myself and chase after...
While my muse is the guide of the night, my heart's voice is the only recipe for melancholy, while my heart's voice is the only recipe for melancholy, where my heart is hidden in my eyes, and sometimes my rose face fades, while my rose face fades, while my muse is the only recipe for melancholy!