How can I describe all this? Strange longing? Curious passion? Laughs, uh of those laughs, when the moon lights fell between our eyelids. And whispers, uh of those whispers when the scarce voice touches our cheeks. The moments were fast, and we called them: Wait, wait a little; our hearts are still young and dewy. How am I describe that for you? I cannot. But repeat what the cloud said to you one day, what we understand and what we do not understand. Yes, there are moments that we do not understand, and feelings that we do not understand; the unusual moments and unusual feelings.
You might think that I came from the heart of the sun and from the eyes that color songs. You might think that I came from a land of great wishes and pleasant endings. You are wrong, my friend, you are very wrong, yes, this land is dignified, but on its back, the dreamy feet walk. I came from the land of dreamers, where the eyes are dreamy, the tongues are dreamy and the faces are a dreamy. I came from the land of dreamy words, dreamy smiles and dreamy promises. The flowers here are dreamy, the butterflies here are dreamy, the rivers here are dreamy, the trees here are dreamy, even the birds here are dreamy. Very simply, I am a dreamer who came from the land of dreamers, where traitors stole our dreams.
I tell you honestly; I am only good at talk with my trees. But don't worry, you don't get bored of amazement, I'm a very magical box, awesome, and weird. Of course, I am not blind as you think, but I do not see all this glory and this sparkle in your samar, I only see a stone and a faint word for the cold moment. Hurray, hurray, my beautiful life. This is the trunk of absence; it is intense and black and it destroys the stories of my grandparents coldly. These tales tell me what they saw shadows when their nights were immersed in the water of samar. Oh, how long my soul yearns for samar; a warm talk in the lovely evening.
You know that the florist came to us from unforgettable lands, so of course you can sing with me, because I am still immersed in the colors of flowers, and make a great love. I still dance lightly, and I'm still stuck on our train that we met, although I know the colors of flowers and the sounds of birds, but they can only sleep next to this warm patio. Here we celebrate and say we are satisfied. This is strange, because we know that the eyelids, lips and everything can touch us in the warm evening or warble in the early morning, it can only gently touch the depth and can only pass through the florist.
I have a salty bird; it never tires of trying to fly because it has been without wings since its birth. It is antique, deep and subtle, and in the afternoon, it knocks on the windows of the village as if it were an old tale. You know that I'm not a rebellious man and I always try to walk beside the wall but my bird has a zealous spirit and soon fades in the love of freedom. How I wish I were like my bird; something yearns for fade in the truth.
When I came back, I didn't find those songs, and didn't find the lake of goose, but she quickly whispered from there: "Smile, smile, here will you find your story". Yes, purple roses here and you too. The mirrors are full of possible songs and possible longing. The birds know, the rivers know and I know too. Yes, it is the moment we know; the moment that need warmth and hug.
Surprisingly, I can no longer sail in the Euphrates, nor can I find a vehicle in my blood to love the sun. My mouth turns in the amidst of the words and freedom flows from my ears like ants. I fade at a strange speed, as a lover brings longing behind, so no eye can see. Look at my dreams; They are made of rusty nails that know nothing of civilization. Look at my eyelids, they are rainy leaves, made of sorrow of a tired cane with crusted feet in the mud. In the arms of this bitter sailing, I can barely distinguish the face of the Earth from parts of my dream. Yes, I will have marine stories when I talk about the bitterness inside me.