Here, on my earth you see no rose; there is nothing but pale and rhyming faces of pain. You see no eyes but the empty sea, and here you can feel the cold hands of the world as it knocks on our door in a frightening night. O cold world, I can't see your heart or your eyes. I remember when you told me about colored trees but when I put my head on the pillow your red hand knock in the cold nights so I see our lost children and their sad morning shed in the waterwheel.

I am a farmer from the south with nothing in my pocket other than oranges. Look at my face, it is brown and look at my hands, it is white. I am from here from the south; an oriental man with a dreamy soul. Yes, I am a dreamer from the south. My heart bears only simple love and my mouth is always smiling.

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.

When the roads open their eyes, all the sympathetic fish will come to the sea. You can't imagine the way of the smile comes with pink flowers tweeting near that window which sleeps on my mom hands. Without any end, I feel hidden happiness in the light of my mother.  My heart, like a bird on an ice branch, and in my opinion, I am a leaf without movement. But my love is that wind that can cross all the clouds, and the grass that hugged all the goats in the world, but the love of the mother is a different and impossible world in a unique way.

I asked every rose in our garden and every tree near our house to tell you frankly: Every year I love you more. Today, in this charming morning I spoke seriously with the sun, and we decided to tell you one fact: Every year I love you more. It is the last night of December and this year has passed with a great memory, but what I really remember are our moments where I love you more. Now, on this silent night, near our little fireplace, specifically in this intimate winter moment, I listen well to my coffee and remember every word of it and how it tells me to give you a big hug and tell you strongly: Every year I love you more and more.  When I sit next to you, I love you more, and when I travel across faraway lands, I deeply feel that I love you more.  When I talk to you, I love you more, and when I remember your words, I love you more and more. In fact, every day I love you more, and every year I love you more.

I met an old friend in the dream and his hand was warm, not because of fever but because of his love. You cannot imagine the effect of flowers and friend in a dream. You may not know that our dream is the only place where we can see white birds and trees smiling because it is rare to see a smile in my city where the souls are dark like deformed wood, but our dream always smiles to us as a mother.

The ancestors used to say that life was a moment and imagine how it would be if its color is orange; the eyes are orange, the lips are orange and the dresses are orange. The orange color has been so burning. so the Asian tribes often raise them over their mountains. It is warm but dewy like the spirit of the sunset which grabs our hearts with its soft passion, so you can not see here only dewy flowers. Yes, the sunset is an inspiring visitor; its glorious breeze knocking on our doors every day, but as you know I am a peasant from the south; my heart is very thin, but it knows nothing about the amazing orange color.

Please hold my hand, hold it tightly, I want to feel something warm, I am tired of coldness in this world. Imagine me a bird and catch me strongly, imagine me a flower and catch me strongly or imagine me what you want but what is important is to hold my hand strongly, I really need your warm hand to feel that I am still alive and not frozen. Please hold my hand warmly, hold it deeply; hold it lovingly. I am a cold shadow thirst for warmth, depth and love. I am an absent tale on a lost paper need warm fingers to find their lines. Please hold my hand to celebrate and light a candle in my cold nights.

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.

When you touch me, I do not stand near the faint window, but I open all the bright doors, the doors of a very strong and very shapeless breeze. O Ramadan; the rain of touches that reach every story in my weak body and every region in my soul. Your touch is a soft candle, yes your touch is a new white flower. When you smile at me, I do not wait behind the absent window, but I see the true doors, the doors of endless time and unlimited place. Oh Ramadan, you can imagine my very intense and very shapeless happiness. When your soft whispers flow deep in me, I will never be near the salty window, but I will be immersed in warm doors , the doors of swimming in a stunning river, disappearing in a very strong and very shapeless sea. O Ramadan, let your lantern to touch my cheeks and draw a beautiful spring on my eyes. Let fasting immortalizes my body out of the water that will gone, and the food that will perish. Let my body know its true existence, and let me see my real body without food or drink. O Ramadan, allow your lantern to shine in my depth and to color my soul with unforgettable chants.