What dream was your guest, at what time and at night you threw me away, and now I have adopted the principle of giving birth, not being reborn in the ashes of love when I thought it was true.
If you are a color, the most noble black but dreamy-eyed girl of the night in your dark eyes.
All this time I have built the wall of mourning and covered with words and I have built this love from the words that escaped my veil.
My name is hidden in my tag and my heart is old: motor oil, on the other hand, with hope and love of the wind, and with a reinforcing complacency, sometimes I overcame the boot, after all, the hole I fell into was full of words.
My eyes are full of this night and I am the keeper of the mercy that will rain, and the bell in me is cheering: either I will write or I will write; I will either love or be offended.
As the beloved author of the universe orchestra emphasizes:
The earth is playing differently, the sky is playing from another wire, and my words, like a harpoon, flow like a gutter, mostly from my mouth, which I zip, and thanks to this, I do not drown in the flood of my age.
A systematic working order.
I'm fine-tuning my soul and a high-pitched sound.
Sometimes my soul is deactivated and at that moment I break away from life.
If I collect a memory, my pen suddenly shuts up, and every moment of silence I take life to the top in discourse.
Sometimes I slide, sometimes I squirm, and sometimes I'm devastated.
What dream am I a native of, but me and you, miserable stranger?
What pendulum is it that his feet entwined and moved?
The coffin, which is made of blue, is hidden in every guise of the sky, its exposure to the universe and its phases is lost. The loneliness of the wounded and amorous city, while the residents of the city applaud as much as the cycles of love are thrown away.
In the dome of the season and the angel of love.
If it's a color, long live the rainbow that sneezes.
I'm also a guarantor for my sadness, just like a holiday boy going out for a walk in the city.
In the morning of the feast when my skirts ignite, and after and.
A heart that circulates and considerable time, of course, I still haven't been freed, my moldy yesterday, my noisy day, and my mind goes on the sill of tomorrows that I wait for smiles...
I am hidden in my name and in every step I cannot take.
Oh, the person I didn't turn to, the angels I recourse to, and my bowing heart, and here I was defeated by the moonlight, I was caught in the sky of the city while the stars were flashing with my quality tonight, and the love was kept in the sky after all, and the love that came from loneliness in its ignorance also went into the habit.
Even if my temper does not dry out, how would I entertain my miserable inner and how could I endure, and the only truth hidden in God's sight, where I fly whenever I can't fit into the sky:
I am not a person of my age or age, either for this day or for a lifetime.
I am also addicted to the rainbow with my color and I am a clown wind hidden in every section.
My day does not suit my day, I never resembled anyone else, and the most angry of me is myself and the only one I imitate.
Fictional journeys.
What I write are also the minutes of the holy journey that I made inside myself with the virtue of lying on the broken wheel of the dome, where my relative happiness and smiling face suddenly hangs and I hang.
Oh, and what I didn't write.
All the emotions and memories that I have classified and the truths that are internalized with my imagination, which I can not even realize, sometimes I am considered a weed, finally I fell apart from myself that I apparently live together with my wandering heart and sawed soul and the wind that blows inside me like a fairy tale hero, I open my mouth and look at the sky. You know, when three falling apples slit my head and just as I was about to bite, the apples stood up and ran away from me by far.
While I was living a life far from heaven and earth, which I created after a huge hole that I built for myself with my pen-popping quality, maybe scurrying after those who escaped and hiding in a hole and pecking that hole with my pen and pecking it with my pen, while I was still a member of the universe with my earthly temperament.
My pupils growing in the navigation of the climate.
While hidden in my trembling voice and hand and spirit, sometimes enthusiasm, sometimes stillness.
My clothes are neither torn nor scruffy.
While my figure is the only way to be a unique and virtuous person, it is sometimes considered a burden to be one with the inside and I do not get rid of trouble, and here is the center of my self-respect and belief:
The people I live for God's sake and love bigger than I am, and my pen and heart, which I got up from and carved, which may be a wreck, but after the natural disasters in my nature, I collapsed into myself.
My words are the charm of life.
It's never a reddish purple, it's not just my writing and my destiny, and the most rosy dream and the world and the clumsiness in my heart that I managed to love while I was suddenly frightened and backed away.
My words are rivals to my sadness.
Hope and love as my motto.
And around me, around which I turn with the pure mercy of faith, but by circumambulating a lifetime of love, I approach myself and gradually make peace with myself.
A sadness is hidden in a pan, and the wind swings, sometimes I lost my balance and was faithful with enthusiasm, my joy of living, and whatever/whoever I rested, most of all, I pinched myself and I couldn't even tell if what I wrote was real or a dream.
