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.

The Human Soul
The human soul is a beautiful world; very beautiful. How much I loved it and believed in it, isn't it the one who plants the basil? Isn't it? Where truth tells all the unimaginable beauty, never an illusion, it is the beauty that descends early, shaking hands with the boys in the streets.
Don't you see it descending every day? its hands soft, planting the basil, how do they want it ugly? Can the one who plants the basil be ugly? How can they lie all this lie? Just come a little, towards your soul, towards a world that does not know ugliness and lies.
Yes, ugliness is not real, and it will not be, no matter how hard they try, don't you see that they are always disappearing? They stole everything and did not leave a flower. I wonder where they got this cruel heart from? Did they not know that the evenings are warm, and that the fields have their delicate hymn? How can there be all this darkness in their hearts? I really don't understand.

PALE BEGINNINGS

For whom are the flowers picked? And for whom are the candles lit? The waves destroyed every butterfly that melts in its nostalgia for the charming sunset breezes. The roads are flimsy, they turn without turning back. My fingers and my calls are not enough to find my starting points. My beginnings are pale, their winter clothes have been drained and my fingers evaporated; the woodcutters toppled it like twigs hiding among its leaves every civilization I don't tell its great secrets. Nature is adept at unleashing every possible story and every pigeon whispering in my ear tells me about that flood that stole the birds' nests, leaving only my dark skin, and a magic chariot towards being lost. Though the frogs are pure, and though their croaks color my evening cheeks, I do not find my ears eager for their great singing. I will fall into the well, because its paintings are devoid of fish and pearls. Yes, pearls are the message of every death and **** of the Gulf. He sleeps hungry on his golden berth where those swamps stretching like virgins in the middle of noon on my back, those hands with very long fingers, they pluck me like autumn leaves so affectionately. Hurry, smile, o icy capitals. The night walks on two arms of asphalt, and I am those ancient stones in the womb of the earth, satiating its bushes with every bitter cough. My teeth are a painting of beauty, and my fallen lips in the oasis of longing are the story of an old man who passed through my village one day. Come near, come near, o swaying waves, o utter chants, o body parts that I know, here I am stopping like death. My capitals are devoured by locusts, and my mouth melts every strange boat. Hurry, Hurry, smile, O freedom; for the noon has ended every bush that stands still on its branches and sings the swaying waves, so I go out in autumn like rough cracks on the hands of the peasants.

My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears, are pierced by a sleeping civilization. I don't know how this air gets into my lungs. Floods are no longer enough to end this world. His body is like a motionless stick, and there is only a frantic crawling in the darkness. Yes, there must be a new death. Thus, I cast out a ghost of peace. I whipped the back of the Galaxy with a squeaky sound.  
The ants choke the valleys, and they fold up like a table for the hungry. Their bodies are piled with cheap sand that fills the cracks of old age in the face of alien civilization. Yes, failure is the legacy of this galaxy, lest it be said that man knows nothing of immortality, and lest I pretend that life has stopped in the sowing season, I will bring out a skinny cow that will fill the earth with screams, leaving no room for it. To allow them to leave.
This is how the word splits, like a star swimming in a river. The world is shrinking and its bones gobbling up the stench. And this civilization is nothing more than a dying city. Life has become harsh schedules, but the birds fill it with singing, and teach man the love that revives hearts. I do not deny the joy of the city, and I do not forget its bright colors on the glass of my lens, but what you see of tears is enough for a person to be silent for a while.

Here I am walking exhausted and merciless - under the shadow of promises - bumping into every rock on either side of the road. My feet are so cold that they despair, and my forehead is a legendary promise that knows no death. I am a man who is very postponed and dull. My life is dark, its knees are tired of emptiness, and its forehead is filled with cold wounds.
How can I wake up while the shattered mirrors await me, scattering my body in space, holy wars, their stalks dancing above my capitals like branches of dewy corn. And they laugh and tell me that I am something immortal, bleeding here and there with pleasure. Oh, my miserable luck, is there other choice than holy wars?
Yes, my friend, this is how I fall, a waterfall that knows nothing but crying. I disappear in my longing like a traveler of snow, whose ribs have been shattered by the stories of passersby.
Yes, this is me, a postponed man and a crippled dream. When I live with all my voice and when I drown in my pain to the marrow, the harsh afternoon devours me, and many great voices swallow me in a moment. Then I know that the beloved earth is lying when it sheds a tear as pale as the color of sunset.

You shake my hand in amazement, amid winter-dressed fields and tired white branches. When will this anxiety go away? Then the eternal words will come. How are hopes? When we remember those distances, we are filled with laughter and nostalgia. Yes, our memories are inspiring, full of tears. Maybe it will attract our friends and they will love to sail in this memory; in this sea of inspiration. Why not? We can be good writers, and of exceptional sizes. Yes, we can be good writers; we grow wheat and buy reeds to warm the autumn. Is not this our blood flowing, and our bodies sold in the streams? I am tired of these merchants and the people of cheap goods. They hold us fake eyes. Are they not tired of this slavery? Are they not ashamed? I hope you hear, there must be freedom, there must be a beginning, a scream that awakens the sleepers.

Our summer is not beautiful because our daughters do not have a new veil and our children do not have smiles. In summer the sea is without wind and the sky is clear, but the eyes of this world are blind to see my naked body. Summer here is very lightweight as everything; There is no dreams, no smile, no future and no souls, I mean; no life here in summer. Our morning is hot and empty and our evening is dry and painful. Our summer is not beautiful because its sun is dark and its stories are sad.