My nightmares cure and the sun rises on my skin at night

Hold your hands, I am a willing lover of my dreams and of the facts that I have been slaughtered more than I dreamed: I am a enchanted sun hidden in the ground of love, I am a pancake forgotten in the market.

Your journey is your life.

Your sad songs.

You are a hidden channel in my prayer that I read and blow every time my poetry cramps, and you are a completely transparent being from the subtitles in the bulletins.

I do not have a single word known in the supplication of the unknown: every time I sweep all the pain under the carpet, the dust overflows my mind and how I curse the evil of the vindictive demon.

I'm in the barley barn.

I am a resentful star in love with the full moon in the star cluster.

My jacket is of blue, and my dreams are hidden in my district: I am perhaps the most isolated dreamer of the world, which I challenge with my concealment in the clear words of dreams that run into seed.

I collected leaves when I was in the dowry chest.

I faded before its time.

Since it was love, I did not know how to fall in love.

I am the sweetest of the seasons, my father's only daughter.

As it gets worse, I have nightmares. At night, the sun rises on my skin, the sun goes out in my spirit, the stars tremble, a helpless human being loyal to his Lord.

Manifesto of your life.

My victory is hidden in manic words.

On the bed of dreams, those congested corridors, slaves of a burning love beyond fire.

Love is a rupture, every unspoken word is the edict of the mine-paved heart of the lover in the eyes of the lover.

Every emotion that is neglected, but comes and sleeps, the soul of love.

The heart is bent, sometimes it lifts the cauldron and the words smoke from the forest of the heart.

With a whirlwind.

An impatient sigh.

It is an unintentional love and love intertwined with sadness.

He is in love, the desire of the heart leads to floods, and the one who gives the judgment is the supreme Creator.

Craving like popcorn.

No one from the corner of the coast.

If it is a memorandum, you become a slave to falling in love, as if you are the headman of the village from which you were fired, and every moment you record is a day and night away from your lover.

Blue is your cloak of secrets.

Your edict that you stopped to write is a burning song.

You see the bottom every time you think about what you love and every time you can't see it, a person is born, you become a poet at the end of life.

Your beloved wife.

It is the alphabet of the roaring sky, in every inch of love-knitted earth that is faithful to its roots, every frame of the trap that one can fall into.

Longing is what you cannot destroy.

The backyard of the love that you can't perform is sometimes heaven, when the eyes of your lover you knew were far away, you were the one running away from the marauding shadows of the life that turned into hell, that long bridge that stretches from your past to the day where you betrayed the losses, every syllable of your loss, beyond your disappearance.

Poetry is yours, since you can't get together, your smoldering silence and beautiful halo.

It is the call of the moon that rules the night.

You are lost in the star map, to the happiness you have fallen away from, you still cross couplets and solar embankments, if it is a destruction, life is love Every night and in your dark eyes you listen to the words of your lover, angel of love.

You are inadequate.

That inaccessible lover you succumbed to your arrogance.

Its altar is in its place, but every unknown is in the sight of God, whose journey and purpose are hidden.

What you have reported in the remaining ukde.

How much you respect loneliness in the spiral of the universe.