My days are like my poems; gray and tasteless. They often asked me to throw them from over the bridge, but I was an old lover who could not drink his coffee without passion. They have wide hearts, just like the big cows I have seen in the old city, and without any delay, I have faded into their very watery souls. Those souls, which you may see in the old mirrors, can say nothing but silence because they are, like my land, do not know anything about love. So I will bring a jar of smiles to color their gray face.

Our days are full of surprise, as all the happy springs are overflowing from their amazing fingers. I am not water, and I cannot sleep in the hearts of these springs, but the freemen made houses of love for birds that know nothing but the morning songs. They are smooth creatures, and there is only light in their hearts so they are always shining and from their journeys, the beginnings have begun. Their hands are silver and you can see their golden chants lying safely on our land where the lovebirds stand under our smiling trees and give me an unusual kiss.

I love rain because it is a wonderful portrayal of love. Its color is wet but warm, and its hand is shivery but nice. He comes in the evening embracing the old tales of small papers with great passion. When we are lost in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how miserable it would be if I could not see the dance of raindrops. They fill me with joy and give the trees new bright faces and make an unforgettable picture over our old window.

I will yearn for those moments that go deep inside me and pre-announced a love that does not waver. I am the son of the rain, and you know the rain is nostalgia tears descend amid the noise to revive the lands of our depths. I am not an immortal shadow, nor a tale of a legend inherited from my ancestors; I am just a raindrop descending before sunset with all love and with all longing. So I remember how the sky rose, and looked at her sister; the earth with all love and all longing, and silently sending kisses over wings of the wind, but when its nostalgia overflowing, her eyes flood with rain. Yes, rain drops are tears of silent longing.

My grandfather had a beautiful horse full of kindness. I did not see it, but they said it was brave. May be my family owned a saddle; I do not know and I did not ask about it, but I think if we had one, it would be closed like our desert. Yes, I am an Arab man and you know that there is nothing here but the desert, so I decided to bring a Romany wagon cart to my house to teach my children freedom.

I'm not a gypsy, but I was seriously thinking of living in the woods without a cook or a conditioner, just firewood, and if you do not agree, I'll leave the firewood for you to set the fire as you wish. I will leave all the walls and the doors for you to remain isolated. I will drink river water with birds and eat grass with deer. I will sleep under a gypsy tent because I hope to dream at night with a wide dream, and laugh in the morning loudly.

If Friday has a face, it will be as friendly as my grandfather's face. And it will be smiling like a morning bird and it will be as silvery as the color of our ancient wooden bridge which is very wonderful in transferring us to the other bank. I am sure that I will see all hidden love in its eyes and hear from it unforgotten tales. Uh, if I could see it once; once only, then I will kiss it deeply and hug it strongly and tell it the secrets of the universe which my mystical heart has been learned from our ancestors. Then I will know the ways of heaven and the forms of deep prayer that attract the eyes and reach light without delay. And I will celebrate as if I am a newborn baby, with a strange purity like deer playing near a quiet lake, and geese spreading their wings for the morning.