While the Poet's Castle was his pen

The night was the call of an sunrise, perhaps your heart and the seasons preached the teacher of God.

Like magic hidden in the guise of love, effeminate dreams danced.

It was a mimosa hidden on his veil, perhaps the dull gaze hidden in the lane of the poet he dreamed of and the inner voice he would denounce, of course, his face was the spirit of loneliness, of hope, and from the vindictive shadows, his ambition was a poetic instinct of the night, and in his hoarse voice he headed his pen with a storm suitable for the nature of nightmares.

The poem is where dreams and seeds sow.

Did he reach out to the unknown suddenly on the clapper of dreams without a siren sound?

And the doors shut one after the other, but the poems had a face, and the poet had one face and hope, as well as the poet's soul trapped in the call of eternity, until he does not feel free!

It was the colors that made the parade and it was hidden in the spirit of the season, while the mystery was the glory of love, every image that touched the banner of hope was actually an opening of sorrow to its fate.

A heart whose hoarse voice twitches, of course, far from hate.

The bigoted shadows, the open melodies, maybe the short-sighted dreams.

Every color was hope, even black, and here is the emblem of the sadness that turns the dark into gray in its tone, while the lanky light is mostly the maddening sound of love that pierces the dark.

He could not hear the soul, sometimes he longed for the unknown in his horizon with the value appraised to his loneliness, and he was in love because everything known was actually the clusters of the truth, the survival of his only real and lost happy life and his dreams that were about to disappear while he was his Lord sometimes reminded him of longing.However, the poet did not know what he longed for, nor his sincere disposition. nor were the skirts of the love fairy flying in the dominant wind of the voice.

It was a country of dreams, the excitement and enthusiasm of the universe.

The presence and loss of emotions in a tiny dwelling was perhaps the poet most of loneliness, he stopped mourning his lost and lost dreams, only inclined to tomorrow, yet still close to the fury of the past and with an identity hidden in the moment, a writing about writing thousands of sentences that the pen offered his freedom. He was struggling with the waves on the deck of life, as long as his boat did not sink, as long as the bottom was lovingly anvil, his poems that would escape the breath of the downpour and the endless longing for the invisible, in a sense, was that thin cotton thread between life.

And once the universe had denounced death by drowning in waves beyond his height in the spell of every manuscript that the poet escaped from his cocoon.

Dawn was a traitor.

It was relative darkness.

And blind knot.

Of course it is an endless melancholy, but since it was sadness its shelter and since its sad heart was loved the most, even its Lord, its Lord.

He laid the night as he laid out the fringe superstitions and he gathered a life from unofficial people, he liked to paint his feelings most of all, and for a lifetime he sewed whatever he could never pronounce one by one on the blank page, after all, it was a sewing needle pen and like a broken button, he spent the night one by one. marrow.

What was the bibliography really?

What was the slogan of all that happened?

It was only peace, and the soul that sensed and sensed spirituality, accompanied by sincere love.

The cord is syllables.

Sometimes he was blind.

The last trump card was of course what the cist in life was meant to be written on the gravestone, one by one, on the gravestone, the poet was embroidering his life and day and his broken heart, he loved the wind of sorrow, which was actually a craving, and he was running away from his miserable life. if it falls into a poem and a love.

He was on the road as much as he fell, holding his hand.

He was as different as he did not think about, and most of all, the awareness he gained with his pen, and who knows what different season the poet who puts the circle?

He had no pronunciation and matched the before and after with hope.

The cocoon of her sanctuary had finally decided to become a butterfly, and the butterfly scraped off the earth with her life-long poems as if digging the ground with the same needle, and her grave was now a festive house when she put on earrings of poetry in her ear and engrave love and values ​​one by one in her ear.

If happiness was a prophecy, the poet was happy in his own way.

Although it is a rumor, life was the very truth.

A complacency is the broken spell of silence that coiled in its self for a lifetime.

Siblings - Poetry

If they ask who are the luckiest people;

I would say those with a brother or siblings Because;

Brothers and sisters behind each other for free

They protect and watch over each other at the cost of their lives.

Regardless, they are side by side in good days and bad days.

They love each other without expecting anything in return.

They laugh together, they cry together while crying.

Siblings make up for each other.

They are the people you can easily tell what you cannot tell to anyone.

Life was a color, in fact, life itself was life itself, and it was a complete lie. The pen of hope was the very thing that the poet was living with the love and faith they felt, although sometimes sadness, while the pen to which he surrendered was also the castle of the poet!