Dew roams the streets like vendors and children, telling them every happy story, every evening it penetrates my veins and makes my memory birds repeating their old anthem. This is how I go out yellow with the morning, without promises or a graceful look. I only have a strange language and things in my head that are so far away, that I don't understand them. Yes, my language is on a cold night, without shame, it inhabited the heart of the sun and fell as yellowed paper effortlessly with complete spontaneity. This is how I am; a mirage carrying sweets and promises in my pocket. I will dive deep into the earth, hoping that amateurs will find me. I will be silent, so that the chaos hears my voice. This is how I learn to write the new history, as I do not know water except vinegar that dries the blood of my veins, puts love in its pocket like a yellow pear, the birds built their safe nests in the holes of their bones. I am the last thing I was looking for, here I have learned to turn around without limits, a city without a beacon that reaches the sky, I sit in the middle of the hill for nothing but an assault on nature. Hurray, O yellow words.

Isn't it nice to live in a time that fills you with love?  So, I became more transparent and smiled.  Don't you feel that many of those stars have come together? There is little left to shine love.  Yes, I know, and I know it is a matter of love, and it told me about the deep gaze.  So, extend your hand to shake hands with the depths and overcome the strange absence.  Yes, I will and we will celebrate. Imagine if I were sitting on the hill and not talking to you, what would be the fate of love?  Yes, the fate of love; It is a matter of love.

Wait, O faithful dawn, wait, for my heart is still beating despite this wounded world.  I like the color of the dawn, it fills my lungs with the breath of the revolution, so I fade away in the love of freedom. Then the yellow word does not have space on my lips. My eyes I carry on my back, and my hands I make a boat overflowing with returnees.
To you, dawn and my lips melt in the heart of marble time, this is how the dawn reminds me of all warmth.  Oh, the owner of great concern, my voice is petrified in the midst of cities overflowing with stars, whose lights wander over my cheeks like lost ears of grain searching for walkers.
To you, when you are a spacious beach, those hearts are no longer able to travel to it. It is the radiance that removes the boundaries within me, so there is nothing left of me but a voice that transcends freedom and space. Your hands I see them, wiping off my forehead the strange dust of waiting. Raise me beginning to shake hands with rain. So, the earth announces the beginning of the growing season.
To you, every butterfly stretches over the flowers of my memory, like the pearls of a sleepy lake, every smile explodes in the sky and your eyes keep my joy when the dust increases, O ungrateful earth, O ice capitals, wait, wait for victory.

On a dewy morning, dreamy butterflies laugh, and shimmering lake braids sway with a welcoming calm announcing the joy in life. There are the butterflies brushing their hair with happiness behind velvet dreams and dim lights. There behind my flight, I will go out with the dew-drenched birds to the field early, and gather shade-stories, and what butterflies have forgotten. I feel the scent of flowers permeating my pores and the depths of my memory getting brighter with every butterfly I find in the quiet fields. Oh, how wonderful butterflies live in the snow, drawing paths for me to wander like a forgotten ghost. You know butterflies are the sound of water and when they descend on the corners of town, knocking on dream doors until window lights sparkle on a wintry morning, as if a forgotten vacation has come home before sunrise. I see the soft light of their mystery hearts. they are colorful and soft as the face of the moon. They promised to show me the gates of colored dreams. They always tell me of the strange purity of every sleeping lake pearl and every smile that bursts into the sky.

Sunset messes with children's heads, scattering them in the field with dreamy butterflies, so the trees wear their sleepy hats. Stop, stop, o feet; o dead spells, the soul of man cannot live without boys playing in the mud. Don't you see that things still drag me with their looks, a faraway tent, and a fighter who is proud of himself? Yes, I am the only one who knows the meaning of war, because I speak about it honestly.
The storm changes the face of the water, and so does the war. It makes the mountainous heart an eternal frown for passers-by, leaving the valleys with nothing but shattered chests and echoes. War is a dark color for dawn, and a finger steals the sanctity of tears. It is a dark story whose secrets are deposited only on every dark coast. Yes, feast and war, their words play the melody of migratory birds, the warm sound of the sun has fallen asleep between their wings.
War has an infernal dance that I hid in my forehead for ages, among its ruins are the bare legs of children, and above its waters every boat search for a sail. You were not present for the beauty of its last scene where the soldiers are back and the capitals of my song buzz like a skinny mosquito swallowing noise and questions. The soldiers have returned, their joints groaning like snow, their hats getting lost in the streets, like virgins whose foreheads kissed autumn. Here I am hearing the legends that come down from there, and this is how I will return with my lips a city whose sidewalks have fallen asleep, hills whose features have changed in the evening, in whose sands the happy tales of soldiers sink. This is how I bring out from among the jungle a new dawn that guides the galaxy every old age known by the years. This is how I bring down to the river a cow that loves vows, singing in its head the shadows of wars.

The sterile seasons no longer have clothes to welcome spring. The cold has closed the doors of their hearts; And their joints groan like snow. What immortality do the eyes of humanity know? It is better for this man to ask from the sidewalks for goods that the cold has thrown on the side of an old man.
You see; The world is a hungry night, And the whistle of an empty wind. All he is good at is igniting wars, So the river drowns in tears. Yes, honesty still carries that great meaning, even if you become convinced that the legend can live in sick houses like a modern vehicle.
No, you cannot imagine the strangeness of the souls that stumble on the sides of the road. Where distances devour the place, and as you see, I am a person who has nothing but pale tales, and in my pocket is nothing but cold pain. I am not surprised by all that coldness in the faces of things. My limbs split like grains of rice, hiding behind the wide smiles of the night, stretching like illusions in the fields; it is attractive and abundant; It is dazzling.
In that vast space of cold motherhood that I will never forget, no boat remains for man that can hold children swimming in the Euphrates, their brown foreheads drawn by the river as dunes of soft sand, I remember them well. They told me at that time that it was not difficult for man to descend from the sky, nor was it difficult for him to stand like an ancient tree waiting for joy, but the sounds of the night thicken man's arteries, so nobility does not flow in his blood. Here I see ugliness multiplying in the place, filling the forehead of light with blood, so the galaxy overflows with the knowers.

Behold, I live to see the new world, I am no longer a child. In the palms of its sunset, every shroud bleeds with weapons. There - in the dark - the cold gives its grandchildren lessons in igniting nature. There; all winds are pale. Weapons suffocate my memory, storm the place, distributing messages of eternal love to the hungry. There, pens don't want to write anything, because beauty has fled outside the galaxy, looking for new lovers. The world hides in an old bottle. Even the holidays, they no longer know the new air. There is only smoke here. I am not surprised by all this great pain, for I have learned the sufficient reasons; Weapons make camels a vehicle, and they have no choice but to hit the sides of the road, causing the hearts to bleed. There; in these hearts; trees will not find shade, but they are plump and red as they should be. Yes, you know; the heart of the river is a city of voices, and a memory that ignites thunder and clamor in our depths. This is how the streets shrank, floating in the sky of noise like patients trampled by feet. Children breed in wells in search of an old legend. At that time, I was a child, and the past was a broad view that taught me to hide. My ears were heavy like a mountain, and you did not find any nectar in them.