Your voice passes by me

Where poetry is water, a cloud of perfume and rain, roaming around the lands of playing, and the hum of things, only the poem exists, when the spirit of the poet is present, and his eternal longing summarized at the sidewalk of wishes, and the folds of words, the moment of poetry is the poet’s sense and pulse, his dream, and his vast, giving imaginations, the moment of growing love, the light spreading within us as if it were the quenching of a thirsty need.

Poetry is imagination, and perhaps a supplication that creeps in behind the words to create a prayer and weave a story. True poetry is us with all the beauty we carry and the feelings we conceal. It is something that flows like magic, for the moon to rise.
The poem is a collection of words that express us, and may not express us. It is recited by us with pain and fatigue, as if the alphabet, in its hidden secret, refuses for us to be us/us, to become strangers to ourselves. Here is an attempt to translate the self, and another attempt to express the other in some way, which may make him one of those depicted by the words here.

In this literary work, there are me, you, and them. Let us read with love, color the sky with joy, and follow the traces of words.