I close my eyes to a bit of mystery in a different world, he closes his bag to ask me questions that are hard to answer..

And I do not know if the wall of my head still holds your shadow..?

When the keys hanging in your windows sparkle through cries of love armed with senses of crystal and tattooed with mandala of paper creatures..

And I cannot read my horoscope while on the verge of moving beyond life, crossing into a time not counted in time, and into a space not counted among places, and I find myself in a sea of questions about a labor from the womb of many agonies, so my psalmistic struggle ends, with a world of an open poem whose words are on something of apparent looseness and implicit coherence, so imagine me from there flying, filled with the scent of eternity, lying wrapped in white robes whose fragrant smell is incense, haunting my nocturnal color - like all beginnings - like every dawn that looks out on the hidden corner's ends in the darkness there, and turns here in the wide fantasy world, wearing a slouchy shirt revealing the geography of the body previously drawn in a world closed on its secrecy and essence, to live the duality of my belonging..

I am, my dear..

Choice tortures me..

And wraps me in a shawl that kills me more than the dead, and more than the living, to say..

My thirst pain that will be quenched by water not conceived by time..

My pain that does not resemble itself in the notebooks of a woman born from a lie, and did not satisfy the soul with promises..

My pain washed with the laughter of the rose uniting the bright grassy green and the shining blue, to give birth to a bride dancing a new dawn..

 Just as a frame for decoration that does not cover its warm breaths, and its explosive singing, leaving the other half of the earth sleeping in the folds of words, as if a waiting that pours its sweet bitter time into my veins, an anxiety of delirium bells..

My dear..

 "I repeatedly asked my soul hungry for death from the intensity of pain and the intensity of bliss: Are you a psychological struggle and a sharp obsession settled in my body..?

For I am not a story of existence forgotten by God..

Nor a puzzle that no one could solve, and I was never a difficult riddle that occupied the teenager I was..

I am as I am, born of a lie, so who makes me present..?

The painting by the world-famous painter

"Pablo Picasso"