Each of us hid himself in himself.. then turned his heart forward.. 

And he went on..

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The screams that our throats never freed one day consumed our vocal cords and caused us to be mute..

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The more painful things were.. the more noise there was in the depths.. and calmness in the features..

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When you stop taking your things on the pulse scale.. you sentence your soul to ossification..

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In my country...

You draw your dreams in the size of a needle's eye..

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There are those who leave..

They leave us .. but they - never - leave us from inside..

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How can you plant presence in a memory 

that is reaped by absence...?!

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The shadow of that distance that only waiting paves is long..

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Sad is..

That the letter is our regulated substitute 

for the free neigh....

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Ignoring or jumping over the event are nothing but our futile attempts 

to forget...

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Often life waves at our hearts..

Demanding that its pulse be tailored..

So it is not loose on anyone..

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True illiteracy is the illiteracy of feeling...

______

Only to the rhythm of the soul’s pulse.. we approach..

We embrace.. and we sing...

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