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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.