My words have no nationality and the horizon is wide!

My words have no nationality and the horizon is wide!

I escaped from the timbre of a melody: what about you, my gentle hereafter?

What if the day is annotated with sadness in order to stay away from the evil gaze of the lying worldlings?

Even in the diet of the child in me, they give me three meals, while in this struggle I am content with only a quarter of a meal and I am not exaggerating at all.

Is it so much that I sew a poem on my head while my insides are being slaughtered?

Or a story or two that I snack on in the afternoon.

Look at my rank and look at my eyes, you can even touch my epaulettes, I am the invincible sacrifice of poems and the indispensable of love, my words, look, the enemy sleeps, the snake sleeps, but the pen does not sleep, nice, you won't let me sleep either...

My reproach to you for the sake of the times I sleep and my nightmares that I notch in the prolonged nights.

Neither the lost, nor the quilt, nor the bed, nor the tired, and I have removed some letters from the alphabet since I met you, maybe I should have removed you from my life and added three or five letters to the alphabet of this love.

Are you a prose or a prisoner or is it mesir paste that you eat five times a day and here are my words that are getting beaten up and I am a nomad who is the apple of his family's eye.

My words have no nationality and how broad the horizon of my soul is, I never pass over words and what I write, and of course I cannot pass over my sublingual poems that I make under the pillow.

Am I really cranky?

Am I restless?

But what am I worried about?

That pendulum in my dream-pink heart and my body numbed by the groundhogs, whereas summer is days away and I'm writing and writing.

I'm not making it up.

And none of it is real.

I thought I was the one you put on a pedestal, the one you stung while I was in love, or should I say the universe I traveled around, the ripped skirts of the season, the one I was ripped off, the one you dodged, the one I drew my reproaches to myself.

No matter how many times.

In how many installments we will die.

Since I don't have a credit card, I don't have your credit anymore either, you dreamer woman, I add my thorns one by one to my flying skirts and I emulate a star by abstracting from my rose temperament, after all, I carry a double personality, after all, I have to do justice to both of my names and look; the bells are ringing for whomever they are ringing for, and I am hidden in that gigantic bell curve at the university.

I am in the infantry.

Or a lead soldier.

Perhaps the trademark of the universe, where I stand upright like a candle and stand my ground with my silence.

Is it your skirts on fire or your heart on fire?

Whatever the level is the direction you will take.

I'm not going to argue with you and don't look to me for help from those waves crashing inside you: God is up there, and you, who speak of my Lord, how is it that you have put a wedge between me and my friends?

This is the fifth season of the seasons in which I am involved and you are the third side of the city, perhaps I have loved you with the pity and compassion I have felt for you since the times you have been with me and I have not demanded to be loved because I was always sure of you...

What did the master say?

"Those who expect others to save them are only slaves.

Thank God that I have never been a slave of people nor of my ego and I have only obeyed my Lord, and although you seem to obey but rebel and break the hearts of even angels with your ungrateful nature, don't think that you broke my heart once and I sprouted from the broken place and in any case I loved you and placed you in my heart.

If there is a slave to be freed, it is you and I am the master of my emotions and my pen, of course only if He allows it, so I did not ask anyone's permission to love myself and you and I loved you very much...

I love it so much.

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)