Which dream are you wrong, miserable heart?
If the expedition is hidden in climates, if you were the master of the painful smile and your word, would I fall down? If I was fond of this love, I was depressed to myself and his migration in the captivity of the season and the voice and the inaudible, perhaps a light that does not pass me in, maybe a break, the nature of the loneliness that I have taken. that miserable planet and necessarily the memorandum of yesterday.
Which dream is hidden in the climate of nature and most of the subjectless love is the regulars of love that I witnessed the magic stolen from my dream sphere, my feet caught the homogeneous images of my heart and the poetry that I will enjoy my feet and when I could not take my eyes from his eyes, was that majestic stance that made me feel invulnerable to the evening of the day. it was time with a smile that I took away from you.
I tolerate the orphans of the season, and I hurl the skirts of my orphanage in pursuit of my dead self.
Of course, it is my burnout to consume one syllable already.
If it is to derive, it is love.
Ah, that gigantic blessing that I lay on the fond arms of colors.
I ignored the shadows with the veil on my turbaned dreams, and when I had banned myself, I knew that the shed of love would be instrumental in me again.
Dear.
I am a disabled dream of the day.
Oh, the stove that is hot in me on my favorite cold evenings.
How dignified and steadily I love you with the defeat of my ladylike dust and flying hair.
He handed over the vigil to me.
As if I had been hit by guided bullets, I took the pen in my hand and saw that lofty freak in his soul, and here I smiled, I got rid of my scabbled pen and chains, and I bowed my head and realized that I had come before love.
My breakout?
Or my age.
Oh, my age, the equivalent of colors, of course, the one-day shroud I knit for myself from the poems I stole from the climates cascading in syllables, dear.
Every time I stop to write is inspired.
In fact, that miserable place I stood up for in love.
It's mid-May and the day b / dead and two, and here in the desolation of the night I meet with love and the pen, it is as if my two sides will come together and the only spark that emerged from you when I was ignited.
My days.
Dayless senses.
In the night, my temple and my shroud of love and my pen is the unconditional part of my heart, dealing with eternity.
I have a memorable yesterday or not.
And the equivalent of tomorrow.
Come see that Don't you always say, presence reserved in the moment, and stay instantly and live as long as you watch.
Let me stay in your hand darling - Poetry
To write to you, to dream of you
And waiting for you.
I'm not tired
I can't have a site either
Neither to you nor to the days without you
Time taught me new things
I absorbed the pain of love
Although I face another defeat.
No
I'm not tired
Neither friendship nor love
and neither love
Even though I live many deaths in my loneliness
Rain down on my dreams
Waving hands to the fleeing sleep.
No
I'm not tired
Of hope, despair and sadness
That you made in my heart
It is the world that really keeps me alive
But my bones are melting
As the seasons pass one after the other.
No
I'm not tired
I resist your longing
Like the shaky leaves that will fall at any moment.
And the insensitivity of time to you.
The trees die while standing, dear
And me to the autumn ground
I'm shedding leaves.
No
I am not tired of dreaming of you
And from writing you
If you wish, you can break my pen, dear.
And here I followed his promise, and I came to bury the suspects with all my dissonance.
If there is a possible reunion that manifests itself, now I have lit the candles and the roses blooming at the bottom of your love.
That gentle wind.
Are not melting glaciers boil as they boil?
I'm like a buried sarcophagus.
Poetry on the foothills of the whirling dervish, the dried up fountain of the city in its dreamy beds.
My words and the fulfillment of love is the hibernation where images take shelter in law enforcement and even your shadow is enough, and that's where I wake up.
The seasoning is my sadness.
A smile made of blue, of course, lighter poems in his dark eyes and those shaky words hidden in his voice, and here I was born again and again.
The wind in me has no race.
If I have pure love and the strength of faith, would I be able to get rid of that gallows I was hanging? Tell me.
However, you do not know, after all, you cannot even guess that cellar hidden inside me and that corridor that I have kept hidden in my huge discourses.
My life was spent on a treadmill and I always walked and I always walked and I got older and mourned.
Ah, the stampede inside me.
Such a beautiful poetry to pronouns. A deep oceon's of words to dive in that even my mind couldn't comprehend.