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It was the most reasonable to be born in a deranged line again, while the atlas was the hidden guide in the universe that scanned me like the three or five images left over from every poem I had saddened after death, while the atlas was the violence of the breeze blowing from my heart.
What dream is the reality of that sadness, while the eyes of ruby are the only anthem in your garden where the heart of love and sincerity is stolen, the day you have erected in the teachings of your dilemma-laden life, and every night you sew stalactites to your pen as it passes.
You are no more than a secret hidden in the hegemony of your existence, O love and the wisdom of the resurrection in the voice of the moving inside me, before a storm that surely took place, you were hidden in the roots of that cave, while I was poking the universe like a thrush.
If I loved it wholeheartedly, it does not matter anymore, after my whole life I was drawn to me like a graffiti hidden in that building I built from the pieces of rock that fell out of my existence, the universe laden with reproach in my hands, most of all, the sky that I taped to my wings in my inharmonious existence.
My color is a relative whiteness left over from my stolen smile.
Drops of sadness hidden in my boat are the heralds of a new climate where I hide in the veil of the night that is placed on my forehead like a mist hidden in the fountain of sadness that flows out of me and I knit from my formal dreams.
Before each memorandum issued.
My heart of heaven, where demons have been bruised.
I was not one of those who loved and lived, either.
My heart is still raw: my fragility like a bird hidden in the scattered temperament of the clouds that grow from the sparks of love, is of course the garden of the unsinkable sun hidden in the cinema, where I lay a mourning in my palms filled with chrysanthemums and secretly twitching.
My drunkenness of victory is the miracle of living between the lines, and most of all, the love fountain I found in that lane, which dominates the fluttering of my heart, which I cover like a pair of doves whose legend is hidden in my overflowing sensations.
When my path crossed with love.
When I am blind, my eyes are so cold that I have never been cold with the wind inside of my life, almost ten years of my imaginary lantern body, except for the hair that goes up to my waist, and that fuzzy in my eyes never fade.
My color is white today.
Though, the breeze blowing through me with the impulse of pink and blue surely took the coldness of my hands, while the presence of the rising sun is still in the winter season, I took off again with three or five lines in the venerable texture of Istanbul love, and I found life thanks to my words that were resurrected after death.
I have a lot to tell and even meaninglessness is meaning.
If my color is always pink, my eyes are like a fire overlapping with cordanese syllables, and I spread to the couplets of my sorrow, the prison inside of me that I paced like a convict hidden in the night.
The joints of the words that ripped out in the eyes of the pen when he was a traveler in a very painful life, oh, that endless enthusiasm and the fire that does not go out like the fireflies flying in the transparent layer of love, as I wrote from scratch and lived and lived.
Like the seas I know myself and myself as an hourglass and constantly shed sand, the face of peace facing life, maybe a hidden counter is grinded in the corridor in which I turn, as well as the advice of people in my ears a lot of shaky anxiety, and my reproach is always but always to myself.
My shadow has given a big sweetheart.
My body is sore and tired.
I'm tired of the atlas that I have covered on my heart, but moving with the faint of love, sometimes my words twitching sometimes like a bouncing bullet, maybe taking those nonsense that I squeezed into my leg when I was me, and when I love my share, my heart and inner voice and how shaky my hands are especially dark and the aftermath of being lost in his big eyes, this love falls into the universe when the fugitive hero is a soldier who can love for no reason.
The hair I braid from the seasons is fateful or vice versa.
A divine breeze is my heart's best man at every prayer time.
A fever and longing that grows day by day from the day I cry for no reason, and the lover of the fugitive I have reported, is mostly hidden in my lower memory.
It's like a fragile trinket, and the countless pieces I divide every time I fall, and a garden of heaven so that I may be alarmed and bestowed upon myself, it is a matter of time before I fade or open, at least loyal to pity.
Come on, put off your dreams again.
Indeed, nobody dominates me like a mill, while my joy and freedom were forbidden from the first day, and I am free only when I love and write, and that is its content, my child's heart, and even though I am a thousand years old, I still never resemble love with my distant and close identity in a shameful manner. The innumerable sub-sets of essences that are pulling out of a beating heart inside me, with the face of purity and peace in me, and the mercy hidden in my fortune as soon as possible, so that my Lord may offer me the mercy in my soul, and the salute of the soldier that I struck in the qibla of the love that I belong to, of course, is equivalent to being the master of love.
Before I ruled my pen, there is a gem hidden in my heart, in the intricate existence of the great life that love has agreed, I will disappear in your eyes with the enthusiasm and embarrassment of being still a child, and with the accompaniment of love and songs, I will open the lock with the left key of a life that I was ironed when my heart thundered, equal to that unknown breeze and dome. a longing that falls on the whispers of love is the only witness, when I was only God, how I longed for the feeling of joy and peace of being lost in the whispers of the delicate.