An out of date loneliness: death is hidden in the copper; I'm picking up a trace of blood on the walls and a fussy dead person, after all, in the spring fatigue that is the harvest of a life that passed without a reward, lyrics are pouring from my window.
It is a dark cellar in which I am hidden, the bird calls accompanying the whispers of the saint every morning I tend.
The shadows entangled in the drawing and pitch of life.
Isn't love's majestic death always the equivalent of love has turned into an angry loneliness?
Little birds breathe whenever they say two hands for one head, and if my dead relatives are left, I embarked on the spring cleaning of my heart because they are close to coming.
I must smell spring.
I have to smell happiness, as if only the harsh winter sun dwelled in, as if it was not enough, mercy is dripping from the veil of April, like a desertion, how I hope for merit from God and the spring spoil from the season.
I'm alone in my lane.
Like a matchmaker, I bring together the figures with the king verses, however, I do not want to be mentioned as a poet, I am just an apprentice mashuk.
The broken buttons of the cardigan on me, which is spoiled from the dead, since I go back and forth in the middle of the city, I am trying to hide a misery covered up in layers, or when I change from head to toe and leave behind the green shadows that are smeared from the mascara of the secret that I remember in my image, I run a short marathon contrary to those who go with turtle steps on the road I walk.
An unavoidable restlessness hangs inside my stairs, and the steps are so steep, and here I am teleported to my miserable paradise that ten years ago I kept with the crumbs left over from when I still managed to smile.
As it is possible, the road from misery to heaven and the steep steps of the apartment where I live, I am in danger of falling many times and I barely get out, at least in a beautiful spring season when the temperature is not dominant and tastes of lemonade.
Whoever I love that I haven't been abandoned yet.
There is no one I dislike, and the curse whispers in my ear: a simple detail grows and grows, and incomprehensibly people are boiling cauldrons.
I am for no reason.
I am impatient.
I don't have a life to synthesize before me yet ...
I am like fleas sliding out of satin cloth: I jump in that dynamic mansion inside me, after all, my dreams that did not go astray, like a child of at least forty years of age, I take advantage of little happiness.
My head is not spinning yet.
While I still do not know how many installments I will pay for the defeats I will save with interest in my tooth cavity.
There is something happening, the whispers on the street that I cannot name, then the whispers grow and make the gossip reminiscent.
After I have not yet seen with death, I blush like tomatoes, even beets so that my red cheeks and my hands and soles.
The water in the cantaram is already depleted and a servant of God, whom I will ask for a glass of water, is incapable of giving a glass of water for the sake of Allah.
Sakil.
An ambulance whose siren is silent, maybe God decides who is dead now, who will take the funeral and go, before I hear the vicious voice of the woman, I am staring at the ground and without even knowing, someone is pulling me at someone.
I cannot prove my innocence, in fact, I later understand what my guilt is.
The one who dries up the heaven inside me while living only in my own world with my enthusiastic mood ...
Who painted the pink walls in my house with red blood and with my blood.
Do I bleed people?
Of course.
Yesterday, today and tomorrow.
The seasons don't stay the same like people do.
I am not a leaf, but the harsh wind flows in me, thundering and leaves are multiplying, and I hang like a letter flying in the air: I love it when I flee with a c and I will say exactly I.
I am going back and forth with my immortality and blah temperament, my life that I know explodes and my allergy to penicillin, actually I go and hang out, actually I set out not to come.
But I'm not dying.
Once again God offers me the trailer of the same movie.
When I say that I'm getting the lead role while I'm a screwing extra in performing arts, I get poisoned a few more times and flirt with anaphylaxis in a short time.
From home to the emergency.
From emergency to serum.
Even if the scenario does not change, my fate is changing and my fear of death is triggered, and I see how many of my loved ones go to eternity.
Sky blue hope?
Webbed eyes of the season?
It's spring from the seasons.
It is my last living in the spring.
I can't give it to you, because I have no strength and I barely climb the steps and go down from heaven for the last time, pull the door.
The fountain of love.
Hallways of solitude.
Flat.
Gamut.
I took solfege lessons.
I practiced piano for hours.
It's like my life on the treadmill.
And exactly ten years later, in April, I still feel sad, though this time I am not dizzy and do not go up the steps.
A different paradise model.
It's cold outside but it's warm inside.
Lal words now offer countless expansions to life.
I whistle the sun and I wither the day before the city in me fades, but the light I store makes the night bright.
Ten years later, when I live in the spring and on a cold April night, I come to peace in the sound of the call to prayer, and when more and more people are added, I only pray after those who have passed on to eternity, I only believe, I only wish and resist, I write the story of life and survival every day and night.
My hope and prayers are green in me with the awareness of touching the Divine Fire that exhilarates my eyes as much as I breathe and makes a sign of victory.
