Your braids are a breeze in which votes are lost. Your fired doors were stolen by ice, and your beautiful legs, like pines, were frozen in the north. Your chants are thorny, and your heart's eyes are white with sadness. O Hard sand, give my mouth a fired candy, as freedom does not know cold lips.

Here are soft hands, just like cream, and this is not because of smooth skin, but rather their big hearts. They gladly engage in our deep sense as the old nobles, and with their smile bring every possible pleasure. From these colorful waterfalls, intimacy takes on its beautiful dress, and the breeze learns its passion. You can find the same kindness in coffee perfumes, in forest birds, and in garden flowers, but it's totally different when you see the glory of kindness in the eyes of lovers.

I did not discover the parliament, and I did not have that wide boat that can carry the galaxy, I just learned to live honestly and I have a small mirror where I can see my image. In recent years, they have planted a parliament in our land, and the ancestors said it was a good plant similar to the wheat; it doesn't know to lie. We did a celebration and create a beautiful and large building to the parliament, and I was told that they brought a different mirror that could show things for what they were, I mean a true mirror. No one knows who brings that mirror, but a parliamentarian on a rare occasion said that the mirror is a magical spirit made by the wishes of our people, but at the end of his speech he smiled invisibly when a reporter asked him about his image in it.   I think parliamentarians see the truth but forget it.

Here, I am from the history of the deaf rock feeding on every possible cruelty. Here, I am waiting you without tears to see shining and tale. Let it come, an unforgettable time, let it come. Love has a memory that does not know absence or death. Here, I am learning messages without sound, here I am learning the desire of things. I knew that waiting for you is a postponed life, and that the face of the water is a mirror of all truth. I will be pure with full force, yes, I will be so freely with freedom. Wait for you something happy.

I am a sunny man, I don't know mystery, and I don't need to sit on the hill to be a flag. Very simply, I like that I can count my fingers, and I like that I am very forgotten and that I am very invisible, like the stories of my grandmother. If you know how much we have hidden in the secrets of our land, and how many strange lines amber streaks on my cheeks. Just if you knew, then all those strange stories would reach your heart before dawn and before any sleepy kiss. We are warm farmers rocking like Autumn leaves falling over the dewy grass with love. Yes, we are forgotten farmers who love to drown in the cracks of this earth as an eternal story.

I will stay alone here, behind the windows and behind the curtain. Yes, I will stay alone without you because I finally knew how pain is? And how love is? I finally knew how fatal it is the moment of the last separation? This is not my eyes that cry, but my heart, and these tears are the story of longing and fear. No, I don't cry, I just say goodbye to you. This is not my tears, and these are not my eyes, but the eyes of Corona. It's a great Corona; kills me slowly and robs my soul coldly. It reminds me of the cold hands; the very cold that stole my fields and our young people who fell on the sidewalk like the rest of the dream. No, I don't cry; I just say goodbye to my smiling spirit.

We have a thick curtain that was inadvertently colored by lost moments. She, without delay, comes in the evening with strange winds to comb our coarse hair. In fact, I cannot distinguish her from our faces nowadays and because of this confusion I sometimes think she is my mother. She stands there to reduce the sound of the noon sun; I mean the burning sun, and to bring back some of our lost consciousness, but because of its redness, she always remembered the sad stories of lost life; I mean the tales of war.

I cannot read Whitman's poems, because Whitman's eyes that saw glory are monopolized by the distant hands. Like Whitman, I think human spirits are miracles, but those beautiful miracles are monuments I have no right to touch. Here, is the life where there is no grass, and its naked child cannot stand to see the sunrise. Look, I'm sure; if Whitman is alive now, he will cry bitterly, forget his thirst for eternity, and call for the freedom of humanity. I know that the human spirit is a great world and that great desire will not die, but our lives have become shadows that do not see pain. O Whitman’s sons, I feel pain, can you hear me?

My grandfather had a beautiful horse full of kindness. I did not see it, but they said it was brave. May be my family owned a saddle; I do not know and I did not ask about it, but I think if we had one, it would be closed like our desert. Yes, I am an Arab man and you know that there is nothing here but the desert, so I decided to bring a Romany wagon cart to my house to teach my children freedom.

The winds have seen all the beauty on the banks of rivers, but they cannot understand the causes of salt in our waters. They can see our lake but there are no beavers in it because of these salty souls that drove them to flee. The butterflies told me about their magic amazement and love, but believe me I can only see salty souls eating my boat.

Our times are always alone and our birds are pale, so all our nights tremble and all our flowers cannot speak loudly, but in the midst of this coolness, I can hear the ocean, and its soul color my heart with the beauty of blue warmth and because of this; fish love to call me "the man of the ocean."

I am the son of war; my memory is kneaded with its hard dances, and my heart is colored with its dark spirit. When our tales end at its cold knees, you will find me in its smoky corners with a terrifying shiver. Look at my water, it's ***** and look at my future, it's just ambiguity. I'm a good son, so I'm its mirror. I can make all the morning flowers torn, I can drink all the cow's milk savagely, and I can destroy all the magic souls in the cedar forest. Here, in my chest, a legendary loss that destroys the entire beautiful mirrors, and a wide pain that kills the dreams of the moon.

I am an Eastern man and as a human being I have a feeling so I love the sun and as you I have beautiful dreams, but I am not from the West so you do not want my friendship and do not show me your love. Yes, I am very Eastern, and my father is from this land and has a headband, and my grandfather has a thick woolen cloak but this is not an excuse for you to prevent me to visit New York or walk on Brooklyn. We are farmers and know the gaze of the birds and understand the words of water and the moon has a lovely tales in our memories and we can also make coffee and tea and for this I do not see any reason for you to sit there on that hill and close your windows in waiting for the rain to make me leave from the street in front of your house. In fact, I do not see that I am a very primitive creature as you think and the veil worn by my mother is like the green leaves embracing a white rose in the morning which blooming easily in the evening in her loving garden. My friend, I know that I am a farmer from the east; my heart is full of love and light, but some eyes are wearing black glasses.

The man of greatness saw a great land, a great life, and a great death, but I am just a forgotten tale and I need a brave poet with a magic boat to discover me. Here, in my land there are no poems, so you can depict the intensity of smoke in a land where there are no poems. Our homes are completely different from scented houses and the women here can afford nothing but sad hearts. The grass here is different, and if the poets see the grass in my land, they will change their idea of life. Yes, we're the sons of houses that don't have doors; I mean the doors of life.

My friend is very polite and always tries to drink clean water, but unfortunately, we are in the same cold darkness. It is an early death, Oh the unfortunate humanity. Place, uh place, how lonely you are?  looking for the remnants of a human being. Why should this happen? I am a man of the 21st century and my days soaked in mud as an old cow. I don't like the cold sound, but my days are damp like a woman's coat and my heart hangs on absent trees. My friend, you may see sunrise cheers, but the real face of all these fantasies, is the cold darkness. So, don't try, you won't find clean water here.

Our river flowers always try to paint the feminine looks that teach the world its wonderful existence and give life a wonderful love. When days try to sing with their beauty, they are embodied in the magical songs of our flowers and when the rainbow wants to wear their bright colors, it will take a flavor of our beautiful flowers. The magical lands cannot find their wonderful smiles only on the faces of our river flowers, and the wind cannot find the beautiful dew without whispers of our magical flowers.

I will yearn for those moments that go deep inside me and pre-announced a love that does not waver. I am the son of the rain, and you know the rain is nostalgia tears descend amid the noise to revive the lands of our depths. I am not an immortal shadow, nor a tale of a legend inherited from my ancestors; I am just a raindrop descending before sunset with all love and with all longing. So I remember how the sky rose, and looked at her sister; the earth with all love and all longing, and silently sending kisses over wings of the wind, but when its nostalgia overflowing, her eyes flood with rain. Yes, rain drops are tears of silent longing.

I am an Iraqi man whose life was postponed and his face was stolen by wars. My voice is faint like a shadow and the clothes of my dreams are so short like my laugh. I know nothing about beauty or love, and I know nothing about the Detian Waterfall. Believe me, I don't want a colorful hat or a golden watch. all what I want is to see Euphrates live a day without blood, and the shells leave the broken ribs of Babylon. My friend, when you visit my garden, you will only find sad flowers and you will only see a stolen life.

I love rain because it is a wonderful portrayal of love. Its color is wet but warm, and its hand is shivery but nice. He comes in the evening embracing the old tales of small papers with great passion. When we are lost in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how miserable it would be if I could not see the dance of raindrops. They fill me with joy and give the trees new bright faces and make an unforgettable picture over our old window.

When I meet you at the feast, your warm hand will shake my hand and touch my heart so I will intone like a loving worshiper in an old mosque. When I meet you at the feast, you will smile at me like a pure sky and I will sing a joy as a butterfly came out in the morning to manipulate roses. When I meet you at the feast, you will kiss me deeply, so my cheeks will be reddened, and you will leave in my depths an indelible love. When I meet you at the feast, I will hug you strongly, and I will teach your ribs the story of eternity as if I were seeing you for the first time after an absence of ages. When I meet you at the feast, my face becomes softer, and my eyes become very bright as if I had just emerged from a silver lake. When I meet you at the Feast, I will love you so much, and I will be full of joy, as if I were a shy girl whose lover had just told her that he would ask her hand from her family on Thursday.

The morning is not warm, but it is lonely and fills the hearts of the birds with cruelty. I am not looking for myself amidst these wild fields; I am just looking for a tale not bitter, a quiet tale from the south. So I will come back with you after a long struggle towards the very harsh endings because you are a skilled hunter. Whoever says I am not happy with you, I am so happy because I am without hope and without smile. Look at my face; it is without eyes and look into my heart; it is without love. Yes, I am a land without roses and a heart without love, so I wait for you with all longing because you are skilled hunter.

It is the colored world where every place has its shining color, and every time has its magic beauty. I remember very well that deep moments of the crowd road of Mumbai and the magic garden of the Ahmadabad flowers’ city. No winter in India, just warm colors in the Happy Holi, so you don’t need any things but love in this colored world where the souls had been filled with flowers and the minds had been colored with songs. The colored lights made the buildings shining as a colored bride filled with henna and the lovely dark green tress penetrated our souls without delay. I can't forget that that skyscraper which had stood in the heart of that shore where a road disappears in the times of high tide. Just in the colored world you find great love to the great persons, and just in India you find the magic fragrance of the charming inheritage. No differentiation and no fences in the colored world where the different languages disappear under the one tent and the different weathers take a beautiful tune in that colored world.

O Tigris, show me your bright color, because I am tired of your dark color. O Tigris love me; please make a mistake and love me for a moment. Look at me with a loving glance; a warm glance. Please leave the ****** glances; the cold glances.Your water is dusty and gloomy; please tell me why your water is dusty and gloomy. O my sad river, tell me; when will your tales end? When can we see your smiling flowers? Why your water is thirsty for your sons’ bloods; the Iraqis’ pure bloods. I am just a bird; lonely bird here, but I am always praying for a happy future for your sons; the Iraqis; please, Tigris blesses them, bless your sons; the Iraqis, please Tigris.

Yes, nature is beautiful but you are more beautiful than nature. Yes, the city is spectacular but you are more magnificent than the city. When you break my loneliness with your crazy clamor, life has another taste. When you sink my body with your dewy fields and wet grapes then the moments becomes more magical. You do not know how beautiful the evening is with you, you do not know how desolate nature is without your sweet voice and you do not know how cool the city is without your lovely warmness. I love nature and I know that there is magic, but these winter streets and these low lights, make your face more bright, And these high-rise glass buildings and the bridge over which we sang, I imagine if there was no bridge here, how would we recite our poems? Look at the big hours, the big squares and the big markets, they are charming but they are without you becoming dim. Luxury restaurants, luxury hotels and luxury jets leave unforgettable memories. Do you remember that? All of this makes life a different magic and a different taste, and you are, in the midst of all this, more beautiful than nature and the city.

When my eyes see that whispering light, the entire hidden thoughts dance with strange shadows. You may ask about that light which penetrates my silence evenly. You may want to see my soul jumping over the grass with these shadows; you may like to know how this whispering light embodies my dreams, my thoughts and my truth? You might not know that you are that whispering light.
I am a farmer from the south where there is no light or moon. My skin is a swimming goose, and my eyes are a dawn’s waiter. But, in a hidden night, where our birds were sleepy and my father jar has immersed in its deep dream, I saw dancing light in our orchard. We have no light but that dancing light has visited us in an absent night.

I am a simple farmer from the South and when I bring walnuts to my house, I celebrate. At that time, our **** became more attractive, and our chicken wears a melodic dress. The small windows of our little house are also celebrating with us, and our throbbing cows are celebrating despite the difficulty of the celebration on her heavy thighs. At the walnut celebration, we make a round circle on the ground near our old fireplace and put all the nuts in the middle. At that time, you heard nothing but the celebrated nut, smiling with warm stories. Listen, you should do a walnut celebration on winter nights shortly after sunset as there is only a cool breeze and stillness of the night. Also, you must be a simple farmer from the south, just like me, to savor the delicious tidbits of the walnut celebration.

I will stand in the middle of our bridge waiting your soul to touch my heart, so I can fly. Our souls’ meeting is the true land where we touch the real faces of our bodies and see the real eyes of our minds. Where our souls meet, the moments are more intense; the hands are more warm, the eyes are ore colorful and the feelings are sharper. I am sure that you understand my souls’ signs because you are a reader and y mother said that the readers are great believers. And you know my soul’s story very well because you are a writer and my father said that the writers can see the souls carefully and know their tales very well. You believe me when my fingers refer to the places of the angels in the sky because you are beautiful and the beautiful souls are angels’ friends. I am sure that you can feel the delicious breeze of the magic feather of the angels’ wings because God kneaded our souls with fragrance of his heaven. I know that you don’t believe the tongues of those who say that the world of souls should be free from the body tales because we're human and the human is always a soul, a body, and a mind.