This coldness is one of the beautiful pages I have met in my difficult life. It goes deep into my dreams and makes an ice shadow from my heart. It steals every possible warmth from my bag, so I'm still happily standing under that tree as a wet bird. This beautiful cold deliberately cuts my skin with its hidden knife, and breaks my face like the water of a frozen lake. This coldness kills my dreams every night and slaps my face every day, so you see flushing on my cheek every morning. It's not a lover's kiss or a pink rose, it's just a cold slap.

The man of greatness saw a great land, a great life, and a great death, but I am just a forgotten tale and I need a brave poet with a magic boat to discover me. Here, in my land there are no poems, so you can depict the intensity of smoke in a land where there are no poems. Our homes are completely different from scented houses and the women here can afford nothing but sad hearts. The grass here is different, and if the poets see the grass in my land, they will change their idea of life. Yes, we're the sons of houses that don't have doors; I mean the doors of life.

Little by little, the water is getting warmer, and the fish have dreams of flying. Do you see these birds? Just look at their eyes; they little by little became more affectionate. Little by little, I began to walk towards you as if you are this broad horizon to fade in you with love. Look at the sand; it is no longer dry; it becomes a story of amazing greening. Little by little, everything becomes different; little by little, I began to get warmer and little by little, you become warmer.

I cannot read Whitman's poems, because Whitman's eyes that saw glory are monopolized by the distant hands. Like Whitman, I think human spirits are miracles, but those beautiful miracles are monuments I have no right to touch. Here, is the life where there is no grass, and its naked child cannot stand to see the sunrise. Look, I'm sure; if Whitman is alive now, he will cry bitterly, forget his thirst for eternity, and call for the freedom of humanity. I know that the human spirit is a great world and that great desire will not die, but our lives have become shadows that do not see pain. O Whitman’s sons, I feel pain, can you hear me?

Yes, I'm a farmer from the south; my hair is grassy like my sleepy sunset and my dream is slow like an old train. If you touch my primitive heart you will see flowing secrets, and if you open my wooden treasure you will find colored stones. Yes, I can accompany the sun smiles and pick up the pink roses but I don't know anything about their songs. Now, I'll tell you a secret; don't love a farmer from the south, because his feelings are always ablaze and his passion is volcanic all the time.

You know very well the splendor of life near a river. As the morning begins its journey, the squirrel cautiously jumps through green songs and all flavors take their azure veil. There, near the river, the flowers, the women, and the old farmers know the stunning colors.  Near the river, the thin dreams wearing their blue dresses, and the delicate whispers make a passionate cake with early dawn smiles. The moment is absent tales without the passion of the river, and the places are just dry deserts without its blue colors. Through its very hidden secrets, we see an unforgettable memory and from his hidden desires, we write poems in fine letters.

The sea has a legendary story that penetrates our depths with its stormy love. It paints our world with its unique flavor, and gives life its pungent taste. Its gaze steals the hearts that yearn for it, so they swing like the ships that the waves take away. The sea is our wavy essence, and its wind is a free woman with a charming blue robe. The sea is very soft, but it is violent and leaves no story for the trees, but as you see I sit behind these trees to see the glory of the sea, and melt in my wavy words: "Everything has a rebellious spirit, even you, even me."