There are winds blowing in me before the apocalypse in the sky

I'm in the secret of the season, butterfly smiles on my hair, which is braided by the broken ones inside me.

A contract from time to time: the slopes of the city, where love is wrapped up, I am a traveler, the words wrestling on the cushion hidden in my chest of loneliness.

I don't get it sometimes.

That dynamic climate hidden inside me when I know the treasure.

The wrath of the glances that I sent to the sky in the springs of my mind, and the song of every day full of sorrow in that corridor hidden inside me.

That lever that I startled.

It is my conservative identity that I stand in the dark but cannot take my eyes off the light inside me.

Your love.

Elastic sky.

Sigh your stature.

The rue of yesterday, maybe the one I came from.

The color of my life that I rest is obvious.

Maybe it's the meaning of mimes.

Every wink, every nod and that steep hill that I couldn't climb...

Like a fruit-bearing tree, is there a stone or hair left on my head that I haven't eaten, or is there hair left untouched by white, while I'm chasing those who vanished, in fact I ran away from myself, so I ran to myself, the flickering light of the street lamp is hidden at the foot of the wall I cuddle like a cat, maybe the last edict I didn't write is poetry, I know the last edict I didn't write, the enthusiasm of all colors in my life and sometimes I shut myself up like an upside down tulip.

All my desire is to reach the sky.

The declaration of the pains left to sleepover.

I am a shovel as long as I can shovel.

I'm a lion more than I roar.

Maybe a bald ibis bird.

And here is the scourge of tired words of consolation, which, beyond surrendering to the pitch-black darkness of the mourning night, I find every time I fall to the ground, the inviolability of which I find with the guardian angels of my being.

My blue crane, the sun growing on my heart, the gentle wind of love and my inner pain hidden in the square of sadness.

The river inside me.

Bubbling heart.

My blue crane, my traveler love.

I have immunity. As much as I burn on the side of the Creator, the dynamic cost hidden in the sphere of love is the idols that I overthrew in my life, and sometimes the deadlock called existence.

The relative prescription of loneliness.

Your floor dreams are ashen.

My over-the-top love, the layers of love, my endless sadness.

The rush of a secret: the wind blowing inside me before the apocalypse, the capital city of delusions, the grace of love that I can't break away from, and sometimes the nature of poems that I can't get enough of writing, where I find paradise before insanity.

Flowing in my color.

Your love at high altitude.

Every season before the next sadness.

The footsteps of the past that I broke away from.

I am divided.

The sob of mortal instincts, the painful call of the wind that blows inside me, the projection of the mercy that I was captured in, the embers of a dream after my childhood and my hat off, and here is the diary of a poet whose word is the diary of a poet, a gigantic monument I knitted out of petite words, the summary of every dream that I lost, the summary of every dream I was lost, I saw with my eyes closed and I fell into silence as much as I lost my patience One example is the return of the day, the loss of yesterday.

This is an expeditionary love.

This is many layers in my transparent soul.

The lazy birds of the wandering sky, the remnants of the affliction in my soul almost collapse to the bottom.

A wind in the form of sadness blows into me, it is out of place.

A well-groomed smile, perhaps, like a mosaic cake, every syllable of my heart I ate from the sugar, the pioneer of the guidance, the guarantee that I was tested, the miracle of seeing even in the dark.