Every time I stare as if the rotten teeth of the old season will fall on me every time the old season strikes the sky, it is almost my existence hidden in the mournful cloud and in that single layer.
It's not wanting to be with him.
In endless frosty nights
knowing he won't come
Waiting until the morning comes.
Is it the texture of sadness, maybe even the touch of a judgment that has not yet been given, and a clown cold, even though I shiver in every cold that I am taken on, while my heart and heart are shivering in my cage, dreams of steam and dead birds, and here is the miserable season every time I fall in love with the city, and then I stray from the road and turn back to the beginning. When life pulled out its first tooth, with my headstrong existence, I put rags on love.
The day is tired, my lords.
Get your hands off the smiley-faced poems.
You are in the last quarter of your life that goes into a rumbling, let me redraw the starting line and effeminate dreams, may God bless the love that I fell into the void.
The cross-stitch patterns will fall into the night at the end of the day, and I will string poems one by one with the pain of the night, and I will dry my tears, I will silence my screams every time strangers stare, I will deal with the poems I will write and the sadness of my destiny that I cannot write.
accompanied by a prayer.
Also, did the demon insist on my tongue?
Like the temperament of the feeds, the longing for the smell of the mother, the flag that I hoisted to the castles of the city woven with orphan joys and secrets, a course that I cannot calculate in the square of sadness, of course, a trend that I cannot calculate with the insistence of the equations, as if I am not separated from the numbers that the pen insists on, countless thoughts that trigger the alphabet of life by cross-legged with the letters.
My heart is on the alert in the attack of bad times.
While the torch of love accompanies the night.
As we share considerable pain to poems.
And the smiles escaping from the flaming skirts of the amorous season of my clown solitude and the fragmentation of the emptiness I persistently danced inside me, and the only recipe for love, of course, that satisfies the longing as I write poems.
I attract like a magnet.
Sometimes I played the three monkeys.
The secrets hidden in the checker stone.
Mars is a tournament I play and the dice I play after every backgammon match are perhaps the secrets of the time holding the dice.
I planted a smile and reaped dreams.
I drank a poem and hurried the morning with the words left from the night.
It's obvious that I'm peeking, and your heart's fuses have already blown.
I was impressed by what I watched after watching a movie that I loved out of breath, and of course, I realized that life is like a smoke from my temperament when I was the director and the leading actor of the movie in the audience seat...
Shaped like my soul.
I ran to the end where I ran away from myself with my prayers that I never neglected, where I blended reality with dreams on a dream pier where I sometimes froze.
My hope that fades after every pain.
It is the last turn of the road at the speed of light, which I have traveled with only an otherworldly wave, while accompanied by the fire of the fire that burns in me before every hope.
I'm confined to myself like a farmhand.
While it is the fate of every mistake that I have made myself like a betrayal, the wrongs take away the truth.
One flashing.
And those who remember and don't come back.
The dome of heaven, which I finally touched, from where I wanted to rise only in a mild breeze, shrugging off the worldly needs that I was opposed to with my sadness.
While living in persistence.
The sadness while adding with the strength of my faith.
That I was isolated from every emotion I knew before peace and surrendered only to Him.
That I rounded up when I was a decimal.
And I found the bottom and isolated from the universe.
Yet living has never been so attractive.
Words cascading from the fountains of my eyes when I find myself in a poem with sleep drowsiness and underestimate myself with the pleasure of reaching the top, when I am the only regular in the world to which I was expelled with the feeling of contentment for a lifetime, while I was the crescent of writing with the desire to touch the secrets of the unknown to which I belong with my body and my whole being.
