A collection of expressive narrative prose poems.
The travel of our souls is an innate desire. Just as we cannot live without food, we cannot live without this traveling desire. One of the pages of travel life is writing which can reach the land of hope and illuminates dark areas. Beautiful writing, like poetry, can change our awareness of world by its traveling features that make us fly with joy and pleasure.
In our deep interior there are travel areas where everything means everything, and when we talk about something, we talk about something else. In this area and at this level, what happened is the travel of feelings, meanings and impression. Writing becomes sometime a great travel, and here shows the creativity of poetry. From this point of view, writing is a travel, and our souls use creative writing in that wide traveling. The idea may wear many dresses to show itself and the writer should listen to its voice and take care of its wishes.
From the book:
THE BITTER FLOWERS
I remember the small flowers of my grandfather. They were bitter and colorless like my life. They always have fugitive blossoms and are constantly hiding behind the gray veil as a bitter friend. Those colorless flowers looked my face near our brook with my constant failure and like the heart of a woman, they colored my life with their bitter passion. I have been sad since I saw the tears of our land and as a legendary waterfall, they filled the streams with my blood.
YOU WON’T FIND CLEAN WATER
My friend is very polite and always tries to drink clean water, but unfortunately, we are in the same cold darkness. It is an early death, Oh the unfortunate humanity. Place, uh place, how lonely you are? looking for the remnants of a human being. Why should this happen? I am a man of the 21st century and my days soaked in mud as an old cow. I don't like the cold sound, but my days are damp like a woman's coat and my heart hangs on absent trees. My friend, you may see sunrise cheers, but the real face of all this illusion is the cold darkness. So, don't try, you won't find clean water here.
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.