Isn't it nice to live in a time that fills you with love?  So, I became more transparent and smiled.  Don't you feel that many of those stars have come together? There is little left to shine love.  Yes, I know, and I know it is a matter of love, and it told me about the deep gaze.  So, extend your hand to shake hands with the depths and overcome the strange absence.  Yes, I will and we will celebrate. Imagine if I were sitting on the hill and not talking to you, what would be the fate of love?  Yes, the fate of love; It is a matter of love.

COLD GODBYE
I will stay here alone, behind the silence and behind the curtain. Yes, I will stay alone without you because I knew what pain is like? And what is the only love? And I knew how deadly are the moments of coldness? This coldness kills me slowly, steals my soul and reminds me of lonely nights. It is the bitter coldness that stole my smile. I am not saying goodbye to you, I said goodbye to the smile a long time ago.






WARM GODBYE
I will stumble a lot among your goals and paths that you left inside me. And I will sit alone at sunset remembering everything beautiful. It is not a song but a moment of warmth that I cannot hide. Rather, I shyly repeat the words of longing, and with all my tenderness I touch your warm soul. I am not saying goodbye to you, I am saying goodbye to my smile.








HOT GODBYE
How burning is this pain, and this separation. It spreads me in the air like the sound of the wind, so I touch your cheeks with every touch, and I dive into your lips with all cruelty. Then I come back with a pile of tears. It is not my eyes that bid you farewell, but my heart, and these tears are a story written by the days. It is not my voice, and it is not my eyes, but your love. I do not say goodbye to you, for I melt and vanish with the burning pain of this farewell.

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.

When we left the icy land to drown in the scent of the bustling city, the streets were rippling with hearts stealing. There is no quiet in the bustling city nor winter, so there is no place for any cold word or heavy souls. Everything here smiles, the eyes are filled with incense and colors, and mouths have hymns. In the sweet moments here, you can't find anything but amazing moments and deep stories. Colorful lights paint the walls and cheeks and bloom with henna on the hands. I cannot forget that tree-covered road caressing our heads and the skyscraper that stands at the heart of an enchanting beach.

Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.

I am just a sad rock on the road, but when I remember your voice, I feel the strange green and dewy touch of my skin, so I smile. I am alone, like this bitter time, and I am only good at sadness. I write to you with sadness because I am from the sad land. The roads here are sad, the stories are sad, the hearts are sad, even the smiles are sad. We are here when we write, we write with sadness, when we read, we read with sadness, when we love we love with sadness, and when we laugh, we laugh with sadness. They stole our door and stole our windows, so the sadness entered our homes with air. We have become fish that breathe sadness, and when we are born, we are born with sadness because we know that behind our stolen doors and behind our stolen windows, nothing awaits us but sadness.

Oh, Cedar, how many aspirants loved you and the immortal Gilgamesh knew how to write you a poem. I am from the distant cities, where the sun is without robe and no eyes, only a story of waiting and something of an ancient fragrant. I am an old traveler, I learned the trip by accident. I also tell you that I am a small sailor and inherited the sea song from my grandparents. The hard wave I will know its desire. I will know it, and I will keep a little silent, so I may remember something. Yes, I will wait as a cedar tree overflows with returnees.

I am not very good at telling stories; I mean the beginnings and whatever you wish. I am never good to be a love or a butterfly, I am just a tear on the road. When the sun hears my chants, it will stain the streets with yellow tears, and when I love you violently, I will fade away like the summer nights. It's me, with all the power, with all the violence, but don't expect that I'm going to tell stories because I'm just a whisper and a tear on the road.

I was traveling in the desert cities with a smile in my heart. The puzzling sea gave me an old song. It is a memory coming from faraway land told me about the adventure that sat in our depths. It always told me that the wind is a strange leaf that misleads us with delusions, but when we sleep, we see its face clearly. At that moment, her cold stories will show us. I am not a big bluffing mirror, but I feel like I'm a colorful shade looking for a unique flower, and when I find it, it says: Student, sometime you need to be blind to see clearly. I hear her voice, and I see her face in my heart, because I am a blind man.

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.