Have you seen the distant islands, fairies Islands? Yes, I know, you did not see them because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the remote islands; the islands of fairies.
Have you ever seen the truth face to face and given you a smile? Yes, I know, you did not see it because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the truth and pick up its smiles.
Have you ever been able to see your soul being stripped in a vast light where shadows swim, faint shadows growing within you an unforgettable ecstasy? I know, you never could see your naked soul, and you do not hint at those shadows, or that great ecstasy because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the naked spirits, their shadows and feel their exaltation.
Have you ever sat on that brown hill above the moon and looked at the earth, every part of it, every laugh? every look: every whisper; as if you were looking at a nut? I know that you never sat down and did not look at any part of the earth or any laugh, any look or any whisper on it because you are like me, not a poet; only the poets can reach the moon and sit there above their brown hills. They are the only ones who can see every part of the earth, every laugh in it, every look of love and every whisper of passion.
Have you ever written a charming poem? I know you did not write such a poem someday, because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can write a charming poem. Believe me, to see beauty honestly and honestly describe it and to see truth honestly and honestly tell it, you have to be a poet.

The sea has a legendary story that penetrates our depths with its stormy love. It paints our world with its unique flavor, and gives life its pungent taste. Its gaze steals the hearts that yearn for it, so they swing like the ships that the waves take away. The sea is our wavy essence, and its wind is a free woman with a charming blue robe. The sea is very soft, but it is violent and leaves no story for the trees, but as you see I sit behind these trees to see the glory of the sea, and melt in my wavy words: "Everything has a rebellious spirit, even you, even me."

Be simple and you will be beautiful. Be simple and I will love you more.Believe me, be simple and everything will love you more and more. The amazing nature is simple, the awesome seas are simple and the holy sky is simple. Beauty is the simple simplicity. Life is not in the complexity; life is in the simplicity. Your sleepy eyes are more beautiful with simple eyelashes, and your smooth whispers penetrate my hearts with your simple words. Here, in my chest, there is a very simple heart knows nothing but spontaneity and need nothing but simple love. When I talk, I talk simply, when I eat I eat simply and when I love, I love simply. So, please love me with your simple love and call me by my simple name. I love you deeply when you are simple and I get crazy when your smile is very simple.

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.

The sky is beautiful and soft. And I'm not telling you a secret, I just want you to look at it. The distances on my back, I dedicate them to the wind, to soften them a little.  They told me they were preparing to cause wounds to shut up. It is not at all strange for this resounding voice. It doesn't matter at all that you look at your feet, but look at the sky a little. It is not inspiring to sit on the hill while you are too far away.  Raise your head a little, the sky is beautiful, look at it; look at it even a little.

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.

When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pink  ear from that window which sleeps on my mother hand. Without any delay, I am disappearing in its  light where the warmness wears its whit coat. My heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that moment comes from her chant; the soul of light. My love is that wind which can bring all the sky clouds, and that grass which hugs all the world goats, but the mother love is a different world and impossible in its oneness.
When the morning’s happiness poured, and the foggy shadow secluded, at that moment I knew that the sun had a pure splendid face and the wings of light went to laugh with their full days. When the mask of darkness falls, I will see all the towers and the glorious rain chants on your hands, where the secret springs of the universe have been immersed in the dust of clayish towns and misted by their brown breeze. I saw your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls and your carnelian submerged in ice tobacco of Mashu Mountain. The white wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tales of light which had been colored by a shawl of a girl gathering the date from her grandfather orchard. So, the mightiness of earth bends with astonishment at your old glitter and flies as spatial vehicle had seen a new face of the moon.

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.

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.

The dawn is not colorful nor its breeze, but politics is multicolored. It's like a mysterious bird you see it green in the morning, yellow in the noon and red in the evening. He is not good at flying because he was born without wings, but he is good at jumping on the shoulders of others. The revolutionaries are not colored because they have wings and they like hope always lives in reality, but the color of politics is terrible and variable so that no one believes their words anymore, even children at school, even the fish in the river. I am not a revolutionary man, and I always try to take silent steps, but these losses, calamities and death have no other reason than the coloration of politicians.

My heart is very shining, not because of its soft whiteness but because of all those young dreams which have been melted in my stony chest. I tried, like any shaded tale, to hide my dead flowers with a torn cloak, so they can't see any picture of a living fragrance; I mean the fragrance of the remote lands. Here, in my heart, you find all the naked wishes that cover her nakedness with a cloak; I mean the worn cloak. Yes, I am a scarf man; my water is dark and all these cloaks cannot hide my grief. Yes, I am the naked man, and it is not strange to see my feet immersed in every futile story. I am the mantle of sorrow; my land is only a legendary face of crying and my women are nothing but faint boats.

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.

Towards these strange dreams, toward iron waters, brown flares.  Towards the cigar of that eternal man who wore toil every morning. Towards words soaked in praise and prayer.  O thin distances, towards the chest of torn dates and bragging. O freedom, full festivities, towards dewy leaves and rain. Towards all the capitals that sit in the garden of the peasantry have traveled after the era of ice revolutions.  Do you know how wonderful it is to go towards the road and make a body that spreads in the city center between the crowded streets?

The love that the tumultuous lover failed to create is the cause of all this hot flux, perhaps he should revise his tune. What we see in his promises is just glamor. I always told him to break free from tumultuous love. I told him that evening, and I was very serious; messing with bright promises is frightening. In fact, he knew that his tumultuous love made him a weightless ghost. It's now motionless and feelingless, and you can imagine what the bustle would be without the flavor of excitement. Yes, you can imagine that; It's really a strange thing.

Our days are full of surprise, as all the happy springs are overflowing from their amazing fingers. I am not water, and I cannot sleep in the hearts of these springs, but the freemen made houses of love for birds that know nothing but the morning songs. They are smooth creatures, and there is only light in their hearts so they are always shining and from their journeys, the beginnings have begun. Their hands are silver and you can see their golden chants lying safely on our land where the lovebirds stand under our smiling trees and give me an unusual kiss.

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.

BLUE VOICE
I am nothing but a boat its wing has a very bewitching tales I can't tell you their secrets. When the blue voice showed me its intangible soul, all the deep whispers dissolved in my dream as a sleepy blue rose. I can tell you another mystic glance; there are fogy seas of the blue voice, and you can feel their fingers touch your depth with calm astonishment. No, I am not a sorcerer, but I am just a passenger has drowned totally in the blue.

SLIVERY VOICE
I was not a chanter, but I could not sit on our tree bough when my grandfather had used to talk about the bright birds and the lucent horses of the sliver voice. There were cities of veiled winds their whispers touch our window with a delightful smile, penetrate our depth without delay and invade our souls with a deep salute. I was just a young child, and you can't expect to find in my pocket silvery fairies but our land is the daughter of the silver voice so you always find my daily chant; "oh the sliver voice, get my whishes on your wings and shelter my dream in the delicious midday. I am just a totally compliant and smooth southern child sits on that bough with sliver chants in his pocket."

PINK VOICE
I am not platonic, but I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice. Do you see the colored vociferous wedding? Its naked soul is a fragrance of the coquette eyelids of the pink voice. When your eyes see the momentary waves of the pink voice, at that time, you will remember my words, and you will feel hardly the remote carnivalesque lands of my dispersed corners. Yes, I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice, but I am a southern farmer knows everything about its dreamy smiles and hidden wishes.

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 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.

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.

When you go deep in your silence, there is nothing can break you but the faint sound of your days and when you read my poetry you will know that I am a farmer from the south my father has planted me with our ambergris. Yes, I am a simple farmer from the south around me a small tree, a small river and a small family. My morning is kneaded with my small daughter’s smiles, my evening is colored by my big son’s tales and my night is the glory of the soft hand warmness. When you have a family, at that time, you will see the secrets of twilight, the delicious taste of the backache and the very wide world of a small family in the south. Yes, I have a small family in a small house with a small window, but my eyes can see the beautiful night stars and my heart can touch the charming morning smiles. When you have a family, your smile will have pink lips and your work will wear a crown. Yes, my friend, when you have a family all the days will be valentine and all the times have meaning. Yes, when you have a family, there will be sadness and happiness, crying and laugh, pain and pleasure, but believe me this is the meaning of life.

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?

When you reach those remote lands and when you see my pain, please ignite a candle in our cold night, and make this sleepy world know something about the truthful light. I know; you can't remember the souls of the flowers which know nothing but beauty but when we drown deeply in our dreams and when you meet all the possible illuminations, at that time you may find the windy fingers of the poet.

When we saw these colored shadows, the magic whispers penetrate us very fast, and when I kissed the lips of a strange voice, the sun lights slept in my dreams as a butterfly. Can you touch these colored shadows? Can you hear their wishes?

The days are hidden, and despite their wide illusions, the rain has touched my dewy skin, so I came out of their fields like moss with a sterile and blind crutch. For ages, I have been chanting dark and sad love for the sun. For ages, I have been sailing in my absent memory; the remains of this terrible wreck.

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.

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.