Grant me the reassurance of the trees losing their colors at night.

I know what things look like when they don't come willingly.

We walked and smiled silently all the way, and at the end of it we opened a wound and entered it.

How many tears did we shed on the night of our departure, then we swallowed--fearing that we might be blamed--with the rain.

If we were like the branches of a tree, the sun would nurse our veins together and the dawn watered us with dew together, then we would be dyed with lush greenery when we stretched out and embraced our arms, and in the spring we clothed ourselves in colorful clothes, and in the fall we undressed, naked and bathed in the winter, warmed by our tenderness.

If we were at the seashore, two smooth waves of sand and oysters crowned with a slurry of day and foam, then we would unleash the current that pushes us from our cradle to the edge together in a humming, dancing gait. A delicate cloud would drink us up and dissolve under the mouth of a sweet, companionable sun, then we would return as twin waves, surrendering to the current in an eternal cycle from the seas to the sky. From the sky to the seas.

If only we were in two tents, two neighbors from one balcony, our rise in one cloud, our resting place to light for the lovers alone, for the travelers towards the abode of love and love, for the watchful mourners, guarding the bonds of loved ones. He crosses the path and bows, when he draws his eye to our purity, he catches us, he wipes us with his feathers, he admires our luster, he showers us in the purified parting.

If only we were the wings of a gentle and soft seagull, the strait does not leave, hovering over the wolves of the ships, announcing the arrival to the navigator and awakening the longing for the loved ones and the homeland. And they forget his fear and bewilderment by chanting, poetry, and blowing on the flute.

If we, if we, if we, woah from the harshness of “if,” my girl, if we begin our words with semen, but we… oh from the harshness of “but we”! Because it says in its wrapped, entangled letters that we deny what the days left behind in our souls. We would like to take it off. We would like to forget it. We would like to return it to the womb of life.

But, my girl, I am tried sitting on the sidewalk of a world full of confusion and rubbish. A universe devoid of handsomeness. Gained me obscurity and grimness. When I fell on top of it in the early morning I was in the past days, my sedition, a solid warrior, and a valiant knight, before the feet trampled in my heart, before the sun and frost whipped me in order to humiliate my sublime pride.

I was living in an immortal spring, what a spring. I fed them from my aching heart, and when I saw the bewildered, the lost, lost in the dark, I would like their loss to burn me, I would like to light up, and if I laughed purely, as if I were a brook that turns away from the shadow of the stars, its bright face, what happened to the valiant knight?

The heart was dislocated, and it ran away without reins, and the stalks of dreams were broken, O you who show my step on the path of innocent tears! O you who show my step on the path of innocent laughter! Peace be upon you, peace be upon you, I give you what the world has given me of experience and skill in return for one day of virginity.

No, it is only “you” who will return me to the old knight without a price without calculating pure profit and loss. I see you, my love, as if you have grown out of time. I would remain standing without a place, if your tender love did not return me to purity, so we would know love like the branches of a tree, like two neighboring stars, like twin waves, like the wings of a gentle seagull, then we would not separate, holding together a path that would bring us together in its own path.

Your body is as sharp as the word you threw, so the apples of the kiss became dice, like a knife that cuts and cuts without leaving a trace. Your body is categorical and impenetrable to the point where I doubt the source of this scent that paves the way for flight without wings, so how in this narrow land can the poppy flaunt its horn. Your body is categorical, impenetrable, and narrow, like the eye of the envious.

His wife says: Our house is very old, and the children's room does not fit two small beds, so he wrote a poetic verse with a broad metaphor.

I bear witness that your shadow touched the string of the lute, so the shepherd got high in his lost and forgot the village, and his flock was suddenly guided to a lost paradise.

I bear witness that your voice is drenched with wine that flows from a spring in Paradise. That is why the trees, the river, and the migratory birds become intoxicated, and good deeds grow like grass in their notebooks, and virtue follows them like destinies.

I testify that you have a supplication on every mountain that a lover raises in his channel or a cloud bears in her departure, and I testify that you have a share from every slope to which the souls of the saints flock.

Do not tread on a shadow, it is a sleeping sight. Don't take a branch to a stove, it's the hand of a tree. Pick up the leaf and put it back on the branch. It's the eye of the tree. Stars look see star insists. All these winds are nothing but human groans. Don't look into space to see a moon. There is another moon on Earth: your eye.

Your voice was the water that heals the corruption of rivers.

Hanging like dust on the brink of dust, whoever uses my blood with blood is more beautiful than him, and whoever fights my death with a more sophisticated death and kills me, I will give him an elegant corpse like mine.

This is the last time I write that my grief is as long as a deserted street. Next time, it will also be the last, my grief is long...

You are more beautiful than the world, because you smile under my eyelids, you occupy the present, you discover a light for me, and my destiny walks between your eyes, like the clouds around the moon.

With your only eyes you gather my body with your only hands you create me on the bed.

We shall part, and then I will not have the opportunity to tell you that this was the most reassuring period of my life, you will punish me by absence, and I will punish you by never telling you.

I look at you as one who looks at two hands without seeing them, like one who embraces the tree of the heart. And when you bow down on your nakedness, do not raise your eyes, as if you are absent from everything around you. The moaning of your heart rises to depict its breaking moment after moment. I contemplate your hands to see that river flowing between them.

Night closes again, and the city and the passers-by drink it into the deep, like a mournful song, and bloom like oleander flowers, road lamps like Medusa's eyes, harden every heart with grudge.

A hand stretched out in a dream planted next to my heart another heart since that dream and I love you with both hearts.

So she folds her soul in despair and puts on people the garment of pleasure.

I hope that God will look into my matter and make me a mole on your body.

What I know destroys what I want.

What I see tells me that I am blind.