As if in the morning you are a bird, fluffing the feathers of brilliance, and evading from life its most beautiful flowers, then you smile, then heal, to embrace you with goodness, and you go with the wind, where the sun sews the shirt of its joy and floods the universe with the lamps of its day, and before you leave it sends its envelopes, bidding farewell to contemplative faces, By the nobleness of the honorable, the noble trait, the trait of the loyal, and the trait of the noble, while you in that ceremony, you look to the tree that bowed to time, looking for steps that were here, for breaths that revived its root, and its trunk, for faces as long as it clings to a twilight in the branch, and it rose, sprang, and sounded Dreams, and they sprang into the conscience as if they were thunder heralding a rainy cloud, as if the wave indicated an epic in the abyss.
As you set your imagination up, your childhood dreams are chained up, you encounter a sudden moment, as if it were a stagnant rock, so you faint, sniff, open eyes, swerve, and pursed your lips, and from your hands a grain of wheat falls into your consciousness, trying to improvise the morning chant that you learned in school when you were young. The nails, you try to remember something from that time, but the dust is thick, and the price is the noise of the grinding machine, and you don’t have a moment to contemplate the shape of that curved, which is at a corner in the heart, and you are assuming the role of a naughty child who wants to steal the beat of the heart, but the tree The one that carried that treasure, vanished, and hid behind a heap of amnesia, its green leaves faded, withered, and the branches bent, like panicked tails, like half-coins that had lost their validity, like dreams whose loaves had dried up, amputated, and arrogant.
I thought carefully, while you were looking at the tree, but she was looking at you, as if she intended to hug you, but she did not dare, because its old trunk, if it bent too much, will lose its senses, and break, as you break down and lost in the stages beyond the void, in the crucible of dreams that go to Down the mountain, dreams with her fingernails clipped, memory pierced, and murky childhood images that fell under the rug, dusted with dust.
As if in the morning you are an atom’s weight in the standard of giant wishes, you draw a picture of that well that was in the yard of the house,
But without water, time sucked up all the nectar, and took out his bucket to hold the stage empty-handed.
As if in the morning you are a newspaper, folded, wrapped in a rope, and you who look at things as if they were innocent creatures, you feel sorrow because some news has been folded between the pages of history, it is the news of your embracing a dream, like a wing that protects you and carries you to the far horizon, so your desire ends in an evening lit by lamps Joy, and remember the loved ones who betrayed you, and are gone as precious things do when love becomes a lean, yellow, dry leaf.
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