My life is simple, not winter grapes, very juicy and fragrant, like the daughters of the Temple of Enlil, but my life is a brown heart is full of sand.  I remember very well when my Martian friend landed on it, with a wagon made of wood of the Enkido Door, which he brought to us from the cedars. I told him, "I admire the way the houses are being built there. There are no roofs and no grudges." Martians are not like us. Their hearts hung in the sky. He told me about his ancestors that they drank the luminous Honey of Paradise. They would go out early in the morning in search of warmth, as winter butterflies fall asleep in the hands of hard workers. Times were magical, I remember well that Mars Alley brightly colored, as if you were looking at an ornate Indian party and that man sitting amongst the colorful trees with branches, with a hat made of snow, was telling stories of paradise to children, at that time I knew that we are not the only ones in history and civilization.  I asked about his age and he was said to be a million years old, but it was strange that he was full of youth, and I also asked him about his name, which I forgot now because I was fascinated by those moments in which we were laughing out loud.

It's a city combing its hair in snow, what a sleepy city. Despite what has been said about its great glory, and that the evenings are as smooth as silk, her eyes are still damaged, and these brown birds are lost as an innocent soul in their small evenings. As a child, I remembered what was happening, the pain was pouring out like rain, dreams were buried under the absence. Wait a while, maybe it wants to tell you something, why don't you listen, why don't you care about the pain on your face, who will know? Who will find out? Is this pain does not end?  Maybe it wants to ask you something, I see its corners shameful, leaves falling here and there, and snow pouring from it.

The colors, the colors, the colors are stories and spaces. Did you not hear? How to deepen in the spirit of this coldness? Is all this to absence gaze? How amazing is this absence, of these edifices and flowery speech, all of this for the love of absence?  O the tender fields, I am blind, I cannot see, the narrator has soft hands. When I wake up in the morning, only sounds of absence, when I see smiles, nothing but faces of absence.  When I talk about a dream, trains of absence pierce my ear. O secrets, O strange stories, here are delightful birds, fish, and flowers, oh weird world, when will I end up with you, I hope I know.

I remember very well that inspirational souls, because the earth does not forget those who try to save the dreams. They are really original and really creative. You can see their eyes shine and dream, oh, it's unbelievable, and I can't forget their jewels that never change over time. They shine like the moon, and their words are gemstones, and their voices leave unforgettable feelings deep in you. I hope to spend the remaining days with the free revolutionaries and martyrs where peace is complete.

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.

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.