Here I gossip among you about endless stories
And the misery of the self is restless currents
She is in constant departure
Perhaps the craft convoys will rest for a while
The stirrups devour the blue grass to sprout again
The throats are in complete silence
It silences the shimmering echo
It throbs across the chest in gypsy locomotion
We squeeze aloe vera to sweeten the sweetness of patience
We fall inadvertently into the whirlwinds of male and female
Willingly or unwillingly in the process of existence
And for the holidays deserted temples
Open your mouth, O palimpsest, so that we may sow delirium
Perhaps my honorable teacher will correct me for what I wanted to say
I took his soul before I was born and before he left
He gave me some of his fingers and his memory was not taken away
I might write about him in the alphabetical Iliad
I know very well that the chains of feeling do not end
But they are handhold cut by passers-by in the alleys
So the noise of their sandals made the head bleed
Feet exiled and virtual skulls
I can't take back the winter rains
And the burning days, its days began with pinky
On the doors of warmth and the end of February
Now he chews the first thorns of drought
Thorns in your pocket, Excellency February
Nothing oh days your chest in joy
The distances are too long to catch up with the rain
We overhear the frogs of the stream
And the night builds its black cocoons over our eyelashes
Your eyes will whiten without the light, Jacob
The sun is full of hatred for the secrets of the stars
In every two flashes a story
And my bad clay is not fit as a crutch for her crooked rib
What is guided by a heart that dwells in the shadows
Your hands will not be cut off, O expectant
I began to doubt the blind theory
Blind everything and lead the legions
But you are good at chanting
Match it with every skull
Despite your splendor, the grapevine does not overwhelm the furrows
Why do you extend your hands to choke my throat and gag my mouth?
Your magic is still alive on the linden branches
Tweet me out whenever you want to unmask
I will remind you of the bramble
I loved her despite her thoughts Almchorhh old
And my steps are relentless to messing with myself
The whims of his child gave birth to nothing but ashes and embers
Leaking from her anklets, wailing lust
She grew up between needle and thread
And in her mouth a story about her golden spoons
Soft and not fluent in her words
I tattooed her waist in the whiteness of my passion
You filled my palm with your fruit, O peach tree
Wet with nostalgia under your wet husk
Maybe my cracked hands are dry
I inspired the roughness of living, daughter of the gold gallery
I pumped my nose from the smell of your oriental perfume
And your thoughts are weak when your pulse falters
I burned willow trunks for the warmth of the year ago
My coat still had a bit of cold and smoke in it
And the princess fell asleep in my coat
You will no longer be worshiped, Ishtar
Detecting the gods in the pages of the prophets
That seer is a false prophecy
He demonstrates his pulse as an acumen matchmaker
To delude the ignorant with the sanctity of races
He mixes his legend in the artery springs and heart beats
It always comes with the first rain
Just like mentioning the name of God at the beginning of the line
Mouth clenched and wide open
And an empty hut in the deserted country
Its windows wail with the wind
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