While you are still faithful to your yesterday, the season full of pain and sadness

What color were you and what enthusiasm was your existence?

On the shores of the hindering loneliness, the light of the full moon, you wrote the words of silence, as if you intended poetry as if it wasn't enough, how much pain did you have on your back, when you poet and silence were scratching your chest, you threw off your shirt out of the blue at night, after all.

After all, you were convicted as much as you spelled out your abused feelings, were you exhausted in the geography of the poems, or your inner voice, which secretive existence you tracked down with gigantic prophecies and ghosts, was half the curtain of your life, it was the closing of your life, you were already closed.

You lived without whining and love was not the burden you knew.

that you; No matter how much you pulled away from the past that you remember with your shadow, your hand involuntarily slipped from your hand in the swamp of sadness, while the cantor, fattening in the swamp of sadness, reaped the grains of sadness you planted on the flying glade of leaves, for the purpose of poetry.

People were unstable, and so much destruction and loss that you took advantage of.

The ferry of the night floating on the parched skin of the sky.

Fendi or the season...

Ah, the fugitive wind.

Ah, the flirtatious full moon.

How you loved with the loving presence of the moonlight and you, with your existence considered as that miserable star, sincerely and deeply.

Words were swaddled once, and justice was not hidden in the pan.

An inner pocket hidden in a shroud cloth, the ongoing reign of white that you have infiltrated, and the war you were defeated while you were living with the white of your forehead, but you were trapped in a mechanism called life, and you pictured it as happiness for a lifetime.

That riot.

Your lonely and tired shrieks that come out of every night that comes duchess.

After all, it is a God who does not fall, and when you only asked Him and while your Lord showered you with light and mercy.

It was an innocent smile, the emigration of your heart, especially the way you laid your head for the sake of God and the barriers that were drawn in front of you. It was the people who had a rest, you know, the dawn that you kept hidden in your heart and the pen that you put on your temple when it beats, of course, succumbed to the rhythm of your heart, and the timbre and uncertain breeze of your heart, and those who pronounce your name with hijab-laden reproaches behind you, also have your share of the adjectives you never deserve.

But your head is up.

Only when your head is bowed down before your Lord.

Frames that come out of your life, which is considered a loss, especially the life that passes before your eyes like a film strip, what is there left to love and love with your child's heart, whose innocence you mention most?

There are many things, of course, and if you could hide your orphan temperament and even more that you are satisfied with, what did your temple have in your heart, if it was notorious for mourning?

If seasons is at work, you only put your mind to the light of the future, it was the badge of all those words you triggered even in the dark of the night, maybe the flashing light of your eye and your pen in the capillaries of pain as you whipped, you knew who loved your sad heart the most.

The universe was a memory.

Remember all your dreams that you miss in an imaginary vigilance in which you get mercy and benefit from your eyes, even if you fall into your dreams that are never quoted, suddenly and while they don't.

Who knows how many more seasons of the season full of sadness and pain you took out while you were still faithful to your yesterday, who knows how many more seasons would go into turmoil when you were determined to give up.

And before your time is up.

What was it that you were chopped off while you stood on the ground for a lifetime…

The wind had stopped, with respect for your pain.

You took a moment of silence after those who passed away.

That you spin like a propeller.

Flannel is more than a bouncing bullet in his heart...

While the license of all these vindictive shadows that you have euthanized as much as you have been postponed, while you were only loyal to your faith and love, you had already sworn to continue on your way with the one who took care of you.

Was your tiredness really chronic?

Is it the fold of your pure existence?

Frustration of your heart and now.

You believe as much as you go, your way was blocked.

While you were the balance of longing, the capital city of all these feelings and frustrations, you did not turn over your watch to those who came after you, and with your meaningful temperament, you did not hand over your watch to those who came after you, and with your inner voice that coincides with your destiny and your presence at work, in every syllable and satire that recurs with your pen. since it was granted to you to be born again in the power of faith, especially that one-man cottage you built from the disappointments you suspended, in your glass mansion, of course, when you were once again allowed in the sight of God.

While you still manage to remain innocent in the geography of love, where loneliness reigns and you are dragged along.