A thousand hanging rails will not pick up my death
except thou, my beloved far away
who robs prayers, prayers and dhikr
until deserted for the sake of like hundreds of wolves
grudge the loss of light for love
I sailed
crossing the samara weather with a chest of chips
there is a net, there is a net
and I'm as if a small fish is trapped
calling for something I always believe is one you my beloved!
Graves repeatedly live out of hand
similar to giddy deadly lurking
but not death I mean, perhaps stitches
that date, give up the dreams
become a long injuries scattered
while you are far away and I am too old to walk
My voyage, look
The wind bewitches the waves into waves
slapping the lips of time. The night rolled up the storm