There is no share for me in your life, you forget me and go, then the poem, the girlfriend, the issues, mirrors and poetic mirrors take you, then you return when nostalgia exiles you and when the emotional mood tires you, and when the march weighs you. You have a share of everything, from my crying in the attendance, absence, meeting, and in leaving the cafes after our last date. You have a share of night night, whenever I tried to fall asleep a little to get a leave from the sadness of your face, your face came to me, your face is tired as a first rural poem, like a city at the end of the small country. You have a share of the plain of my heart, I hid your name in the plains of my throat, and I forgot to forget your place, O daughter of the distant sea and the daughter of the strange language, and the daughter of the palm tree left behind the shadow of its shadows in search of the homeland-hajir. Among the great ideas, and from all the exact details, from the many pills, from all the metabolism, and from all the naughty priorities; A little share of me, perhaps you have a lot of stroke.
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