Dear Steemian,..
..
We do not need to do so except to walk in a way, not to be afraid of misguidance after that. We do not need to know anything about you.
You are tired of longing, and you are wise, and there is no voice in your soul, but the pain of that which is made in the soul noise ... !!
Who burns the remnants of the prophecies of joy within you, and instead makes them the hymns of grief and sorrows, those that draw you in their guts and perseverance, so do not find yourself except in the details of the thick, and none of us drowned in the details of the wrench until melting melted wax.
You hear strange sounds, moving inside you, Twitter thinks, and you think in vain the song of joy, but in the end you realize that your heart can no longer tolerate all this lying, you are a hungry person, you stole the dreams from your dreamy nights and planted you in the desert. On the knees, and remained singing alone.
We do not fear our westernity, our loneliness, our long silence, nor even our temporary smiles, the ones we make in front of the public, and we realize the magnitude of the pain that sits beneath our burning stench of salt. Tears that burned our eyes and our lips, and justified their presence with false joy.
The soul dwells only in the presence of its Creator, and does not grow except among its own, but it is a spirit that hides silence and sound, tends with the heart, lives with its life, and shudders from the band and the burning, and is afraid of its unity and its mark and the sound of its sadness. The feast did not arrive.
It is the soul that dies a thousand times, in spite of space and time, and a desire to penetrate the borders and dams, and search for the reality of existence, and the effects of immortality.
I did not stop the page of short Bouh, was the longest this time, and perhaps long .. And long