My dream piggy bank, dried tears that I shed after every mourning

What dream was it, those turmoils hidden in the spiral of me!

Clouds of dust smoke:

My complex and my love and I…

My pen is not callused

And my inverted sentences

The love and hope I've swept away from those hurdles.

My shroud full of sadness and me when I was a prenatal that I was in pain and my hope and treasure hidden in my compass and my stem cell.

What truth are you beyond the realm or are you so far from me that you are not real?

What am I going wrong with? After all, I am a thousand and one truth that corresponds to a wrong, and I am responsible for following the notables, perhaps a judgment or a satire, for which my horizon is confused and my silence echoes with pain.

I have a huge dream warehouse.

Me and my loneliness.

My existence has been destroyed.

My dream piggy bank, my handkerchief soaked with dried tears that I throw into it after every mourning, and my Lord and goodwill, to whom I stand close before death, the veil of which I hide my life.

It is the house with a room, the palace inside me, and the longing and love and defeat that I see eye to eye, and my boat of hope that never slows down.

What is left that I did not fall into before this last cliff and what thought is it that I did not think of, my inner voice and sad heart that I saw with my eyes open with the curse of my imagination and spread to my heart.

My beautiful Lord, who is read behind my back and reads my prayers in every call to prayer.

I am as unhappy as I am not reading.

Alone as I read.

As cheerful and free as I write, every prayer time I follow my destiny and pray for my dead soul.

How arrogant there are conjectures.

There are suspicions that stick like glue, even before I was unaware.

While the stem cell of the universe, where I am loyal to my roots, is of course the noble hypotenuse of that triangle where I hold my head high and sometimes I am stuck in with my stubborn temperament, my path is necessarily passing through theories and rules.

Th heart, on the other hand, is the mystery that I took refuge before the apocalypse, which was torn from its ripped seams and will break, which is the stage of an honorable life in which I put my head with my surrender to my Lord, my principles for which I fought without hesitation and without making any concessions.

My smile is flaming.

The flowers I grew in my mourning.

The dome of heaven where I sometimes become a star and soar.

My identity is a flower or a pen winking.

My eyes twitched again, as long as every oath I made beyond a promise that reverts to the original is accepted in the sight of God.

Is it my receptacle or the treasure hidden inside me?

While vagrants and vindictive shadows who smuggled goods from the fire have already stolen my dreams and my realities, but the truth is one and I am not wrong, since I took refuge and was tested in the sight of God, the Almighty Creator has forgiven my sins or will.

The season has been cold.

Whatever the mania comes out, I'm loaded with patience.

With my hopes, while my mourning pack is full.

So many people, so many emotions that are out of date.

In your mind, love and longing.

Poems and words close to my temperament are of course hidden in every piece of my falling heart, separate stories and since I have remained the same, I reap what I have sown in a lifetime and at work and sometimes I cry and sometimes I laugh and I am grateful for every smile and love and hope given, as long as it doesn't make me go away I marked the world and what I yearn for. I am also a disciple of that full moon hidden in my destiny and compass, after all, I am a guarantor of eternity and Divine Love with a single particle.