The blue of expectation is the recurrence that occasionally shivers.
While I am pregnant for a day I sew from words, I prostrate with my heart while shutting my heart's eyes in the murmurs of the evening, however much I return in the rubai of adoration, stones tumble from my spinning dervish skirts and fall into a film outline, truth be told, when I spell my name to decorate my last 24 hours, I now and then advance back and expectation and wish:
"I need to compose my last article and move from the exchange."
A vibration that happens on the switch of my heart, my words hunching.
I need to escape from the smokestack like smoke covered up in my decorated hair and in my forebrows and put uniquely in my explorer self, maybe the solitary spot where I feel myself having a place with the highest point of the sky:
I must be both at the top and nobody realizes that I hit the base, and here I fall on the vacant page with my devastation and I think; As I compose and individuals read, the universe and the Creator and surprisingly the entire world will accept me.
I go slowly now and again, particularly as of late.
I don't have a clue and I don't comprehend why I dropped far away of somebody, particularly the ones I love the most, while I have saved a many individuals when I go to my torment.
I'm quiet once more, as usual, in any case, was it not my internal voice going with my pulse and I implore within me I wish from my Lord:
"I compose my most delightful article and put a lasting point and let me realize that life is another instructing of the day, I think twice about it and the obscure and cryptic quiet in me while on alert."
My words are the switches of my dejection, and not the one I picked, but rather a wedge that I at times put in my life, and what I want most ...
My pen while I love you.
While it is additionally a sign that I can adore more, my sentences that I can't get enough of composing and I return to the start, however now and then I need to embrace and possess an inclination that is viewed as the last, and not by one individual.
I realize love is motto.
At the point when my conspicuous human love and my feelings of trepidation were generally the ministers of forlornness, I got well known and stamped.
At times when I discover a thunder and my heart roared.
At times a rainbow goes through the center of the house.
In some cases I wellspring my eyes when full.
Whatever Mealim compares to now and in an allegorical departure, it is just to be put on the hearts; I experience the ill effects of my breaths and a lifetime that I was crushed, I love more and let my life hurt much more, I compose from my torment regardless of whether I don't bite the dust of agony, and my heart is suffering with adoration and my agonies and words.
The impression is on the secret lines.