You was in a hurry to leave...

  The playing has stopped... I will not sing after that. The titles of the songs are life, from which the flow of vast space and from which feelings were liberated from the heart of the one who wrote them, to overflow with an eternal fragrance in the hearts of the one who sings them with his soul before his tongue.

 Everyone who hears or reads translates what he has read and heard according to his pain or pleasure.

 And we, together with the author of the words, have bridges of fluency in expression, thinking, and astonishment

 How can someone else translate what we have so efficiently?

 In fact, we may be going through the same history, the same situations, we may have many common characteristics, and we pass by the same happy faces and people who put stones in our paths for no reason..

 The cycle of time revolves around us to see the wonder in ourselves that resists change and in our need to keep up in order to live in an undeclared struggle whose signs appear in the paleness of the face and the people closest to us are unable to realize it, that it is passing through us.

 In the whirlpool of conflict... our veins are on fire, the deepest part of us is shaking. Sometimes we seem like walking dolls or perhaps robots...

 We say to his composure, “I was in a hurry to leave.”

 As the days go by, we accept, after efforts, that what is gone is not ours: neither place, nor time, nor a person

 Our realization that in the moment after which our gain passes, we can coexist and be satisfied, and calm those strong winds that almost uprooted the soul and brought us to the abyss of despair.

 What's left is us...

 The gain after all the struggles is for a person to gain himself and his loved ones.. Some say after ensuring that, then the flood came..

 Will the flood have passed, and we have not drowned?

 Very possible..

 I take a moment for you, my energy that makes my soul shine... it illuminates the darkness for me and stops me where the strong, sprouting relief is planted in the soul...

 No hand extends to support my emaciated body, and no soul can bear my chatter that ripples through my stories that have nothing to do with them.

 I am nothing but a being boring with his conversations. His gossip..

 And his groaning

 So I find eyes looking at me so I can leave... be silent... stop time so that I won't be here now...

 As in my imagination... flowing, a door opens into which I look and find something beyond imagination that makes me forget all of that

 I search for my brush, I find it in my coat pocket. I search for my ink, I find it raw without thinking. I write, write, write.

 And I was born again..

 And let those who want to leave leave...

 Only the original remains