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.