The poem of death hidden in the jugular vein of love!

Pinch my dreams and record an aphorism that will go down in history.

While people cannot imagine my spiritual richness on the ground I will soon slip on.

I am the mentholated voice of a wind blowing in the dusk.

I am a mortal hidden in the jugular vein of love, documenting death in poetry.

The sentences I write when I grind the day and boast or the return of my discarded happiness when I reach the night.

The magical and majestic presence of my inspiration in the darkness-piercing eyes of the unknown.

The full sound of the night accompanying me and the shadows of the secluded shadows that make me hostile to me, the delusion of appearing in public days ago when a registered joy appeared in me while I was living the last days.

Victimization and my oppressed heart and here the wind whistles and the leaves accompany my burning soles and I plan an escape or arrival for peace, my journey through the long corridors of my mind does not slow down and I cut the account of the day.

The four walls where life is consumed are actually my paradise.

The busyness and the hangar of the words that I spend labor for, of course, thousands of books and tens of thousands of sentences registered in the library of my mind.

The only place where getting the benefit from life and the day results is the only place where I perch in the heart of the night and what I cost my silence.

The horde of voices.

The whisper of words.

The lightning that pierces the night, while the sky is bright and dark blue and there is not a single cloud in the sky, nightmares that turn to dust occur, which I see with my eyes open and prefer night to day.

Sometimes city thugs come to the neighborhood excommunicating the night and the shouts they shout never suit the city and the time, nor are they good for it.

Many things are mentioned by implication.

The stampede of the heart is waiting for the season.

People who have become satellites of the darkness and the night is waiting. Soon the thin branch of the tree in the opposite garden will crack and the tree will hurt and only I will hear the groan of the tree, while nature and the universe are the ones who listen to the sobbing of my heart.

The projection of life and day.

The place of nothingness that I bow to and the silence and loneliness that I shake hands with, and there are those who see even this as too much for me, and as much as I am equipped, a climate of sadness that has not yet come of age is still hidden in me in my pain, and here is the fountain of the sky and the birds camped in the sky, the seagulls screaming, even though it is night, they have not yet fallen asleep, and the flock of seagulls invade the street at the first light of the day.

Sometimes I feed them bread, sometimes grisin, and their favorite is a sugar biscuit.

They perch on the sidewalk and here is the seagull with a crippled foot that gets separated from the flock.

It takes a step and then it falls and its wing acts as a foot and sometimes it spreads its wings for its next step and sometimes it screams and I feel its pain that pierces my ears from my heart and it must have felt me too because we lock eyes and it eats what I throw with its grateful gaze and that's how my God is everywhere: the mercy that accompanies the painful look of that wounded seagull is surely the presentation of the Lord and every pain is met with other pains, in short, the water flows and finds its way.

The curtain of the sky I notched.

Softly the clouds land on my soul, softly I gather them and hang them around me.

Those two drops of tears on my face are followed by a smile and here is my Lord patting me on the back and my words bear witness to the gigantic mercy of my love.

A visit to the universe from a bird's eye view in the first light of the morning and a visit.

Presentation of the universe.

The spiral of emotions.

And the beauty of faith.

The seagull has dots hidden on its wings, and I bleed and snow.

Moreover, my meeting with the seagull and starting the day with it and perhaps saying goodbye to the previous night.

The serenity of writing and my lane-changing emotions are perhaps hidden in my intuition, the unprejudiced life of people and the wisdom of the day, and I am constantly revolving the day and I drink the whole universe from where I am, I get out of the state of the world that I resent and ride on the back of eternity and travel the worlds.

Regardless of what the situation says, I only look ahead while struggling to remain human in any case!