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.