It comes through the poem and the morning
In the calm breeze passing between the wings of rose petals and butterflies
And in the downward light with the threads of the sun
The eastern night is still immersed in the color of her eyes
It emits a flash of eternal love
It rushes like chaos to the daisies in a garden of paradise
I am enchanted in the morning and night
On the pulpit of longing, I sing the commandments of spiritual lovers
The dreamer does not come except with the purity of tears and dewdrops
And in the purest lines, she walks, bending, skinny waist and shadow
No one is good at drawing it in paintings and colors
And the passing cloud the banks of the sky and summer
She left for me at the tree of encounter her colors in an arc and a prism
Suns still rise the horizon of beauty and spirit
In her hands, she writes connecting and distancing lines
She doesn't need what he thinks beautiful women are
And sentimental messages delirium lover
He mumbles in orphan beauty
Groans echoed by the arcs of two rainy clouds that do not quench the thirsty ones
The dreamer spills into the heart spectrum and pulses
It flows like a soul into the lover's being
It has nothing to do with what remains in the ruins and erased traces
And that place with its rains of nostalgia
Her smile is still evident in every presence
And in everything a spectrum resides that does not leave the memory
They are coming in the light and residing in the shadows
So when?
Longing falls asleep on the pillows of hope
Where do you go, you who are clothed in longing?
The dreamer will not arrive and will not collapse in your Atlantic night
The sun does not set behind the mountains of illusion
come back to me
Why do you plant your forests in the land of mirages, dear heart?
I know you are killed in the first step
Because you went too far with your imagination, immersing yourself in dreams and madness
