Whatever Pain Hits The Target

Three or five syllables hidden in his pale face that ran out of battery:
Neither broken nor broken,
It is neither full of lies nor rebellion,
Even if he reproaches himself,
Maybe make up for lost time,
What is he drinking?
What is the longing for the life he can't drink?

A scorching sun,
However, it should have coincided with the frost of February,
Keep your smile,
Loss of joy,
The words are vague,
How many things are hidden,
Still can't explain.

We lost the day
The night has already broken its idols,
What a flower-laden chest,
What loneliness ends,
Poems that don't hold a shell in a huge universe,
Whatever pain his face is unopened,
The years he planted with patience,
From a passing pen,
Leaking smoke and tinkling.

The sickle of mercy,
Reap the season,
Sinking like a bird,
Flying,
Wind of self,
Isn't the moonlight cold already?

Which Zühre is fond of the star,
The group hidden in all this silence;
What hijab ends,
What a speech,
A tale he didn't actually begin,
In order to fit it into a poem,
Even if his spirit is broken from time to time,
Since he set out not to break it, he suddenly set out on the road.

Maybe your soul that bores your senses,
The sad voice of nightmares,
The sleep he couldn't fall into while escaping,
What a light of the sun we lost,
Nor was your hope speechless.
A painful axis moving,
Its color is neither pale nor black,
Hidden in a world that digests dreams,
Who does not listen to his supplication,
That way where the aches are burning,
Like a blunt bullet,
Whatever pain hits the target.