Anwer Ghani

Isn't it nice to live in a time that fills you with love? So, I became more transparent and smiled. Don't you feel that many of those stars have come together? There is little left to shine love. Yes, I know, and I know it is a matter of love, and it told me about the deep gaze. So, extend your hand to shake hands with the depths and overcome the strange absence. Yes, I will and we will celebrate. Imagine if I were sitting on the hill and not talking to you, what would be the fate of love? Yes, the fate of love; It is a matter of love.
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The thorns are multiplying in our courtyard in a strange way. And my voice has become very faint like a child's doll kidnapped by wars. It is very easy to find here the bitter echo and the blind walk towards no return. It is also easy to stumble upon the stones of the path and the great ones and saints who do not leave you room to speak under the pretext that they are shepherds of nature and flowers in public gardens. I am not a shadow to admire their long fingers, and I am not a pale echo that knows nothing about the tales of the sun. This is my hand; do you see it? It is brown and very rough, and in it is a hidden legacy of endless smiles.
How excited I am to find a life that hears and sees in the midst of all this death and strange blindness. How eager I am to shake hands with a bright day that knows nothing about frost and this captivating darkness. Everyone here sings cold songs and wears clothes that big mouths do not accept to be colored with a free color. This is how I am endlessly shattered; I meet my picture in the streets in ragged clothes, I tell it my beautiful disappointment and count what they stole from my little
heart. I smile like a child drowning in candy and repeat like the rest of them words I don't understand. What happiness.
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A Winter Whisper I am; shining in a rare moment for a bird escaping from my grandmother's tales. I embrace the winds and the frozen longing in my lungs like a great lover and go out with the dawn intoxicated because I entered the depths of a wheat spike. I chase the nostalgia of butterflies because I was present with the dew at sunset. This is how I live this love; walking in a galaxy of joy that surrounds me with amazement because my knees are a forest of reeds to which the wind carried a legendary farmer who watered it with his innocent tears. When I wake up in the morning like a lie with sleepy eyelids, mirrors made of wheat embrace me with their hats and decorated clothes. We are farmers from the south, we smell the greenery and streams of water because we smelled winter before. We own the capitals of beauty because our fingers embrace the heart of the earth like the voices of the buckthorn tree in our old home. I alone know that voice because I heard the whispers of winter and touched its face warmly. His coldness slapped the forehead of love inside me like an old lover who came down in a velvet basket with the rain.
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Art by Anwer Ghani
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I asked every rose in our garden and every tree near our house to tell you frankly: Every year I love you more. Today, in this charming morning I spoke seriously with the sun, and we decided to tell you one fact: Every year I love you more. It is the last night of December and what I really remember are our moments where I love you more. Now, on this night, specifically in this intimate winter moment, I listen well to you and how Every year I love you more. When I sit next to you, I love you more, and when I talk to you, I love you more. In fact, every moment I love you more, and every year I love you more.
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Art by Anwer Ghani
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Oh SUN
I will smile this morning with all my strength, its silky threads remind me of your wonderful radiance, and its colorful birds remind me of your delicate tales that plant everything unforgettable inside me. Oh sun, isn't it strange that we meet in a boat of wishes and fleeing dreams? Where your golden hand weaves paths that know no calm. Back then, I was a free wild bird carrying in its heart every story that knew nothing about volcanoes. Isn't it strange that you have all this dew? Like a kiss that dyes my soul with the colors of the rainbow, so I take out in the midst of astonishment a delicate ear of wheat that overflows with happiness from your eyes, its beginning.
This is me, oh sun, a pile of undulating outpourings; I sail towards your glowing magic that knows no night or sleep. There; longing fills the very warm streams and embraces the very warm trees, so I vanish like a tale that knows no distances. Oh sun, come, come towards. Listen to my pulse, it is not as bright as it should be, but it is bright and does not know lies.
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It is so easy to kiss a flower or to travel far to the east on long nights. It is also so easy to sing at night when the wind caresses your cheeks like a butterfly dancing among the lights, Oh the lights, how they love to touch the face of the river, like this with complete spontaneity.
How much you have told me about walking among colorful paths and that it is something that delights the heart. And how much we have drawn with us a lark, a field, and an old hat. And we breathed the dawn like new travelers who came from far away. They only spend the night among the hills and their eyes only smile among unforgettable waterfalls.
This is how I always try to get closer to you. To send you every word wet, pampered, and graceful. This is how I always try to stand before you in the middle of the road, whispering gently in your ear, hoping that you will feel the warmth of my absent touches. This is how I overflow with a call, and flow before your eyes the voice of a distant wish, for no reason other than that I am the ghost of a soul that departed years ago, and because I am simply something that cannot be seen.
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This is me, a prose poem, I flow between the features of time with complete freedom, and penetrate the body of dates like a magic ray. I strike the face of darkness, and shatter the glass of its imaginary eyes. And there on the hills of its chest I raise the banner of unforgettable love.
Yes, this is me, a prose poem; My breath is hot like Indian pepper, from above its hat a burning hymn flies. In my heart is a destructive storm, but my body is elegant and furnished, created by a wild stream whose water never stops.
Yes, this is me, a prose poem, my sandy dress shatters with complete freedom, and my magic is a flowing narrative, but you cannot hold me, my laughter is a distinguishing mark for the morning and a mad confession to a field full of butterflies. When I visit you, I visit you with all kindness, and when I melt in your cup, I become your enchanting voice and the legend that inhabits the non-place and walks in timelessness. Above my sleepy hands are the sun's waterfalls, and from my eyes fairy tales begin, so the seasons and days gather around me so that I disappear into their depths with complete spontaneity.
I am very delicate; because I am a prose poem; I drown in a world of fog. How do you want to see me when I am that transparent shadow that tells everything? This is me, a prose poem, you feel strongly my warm touch but you will not see my elegant fingers.
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Me and you and a grapevine, endless joy. We travel in our little boat without return, as if we were a tale of blue lapis lazuli. We travel on a carpet of wind without feet roaming the galaxy like spring butterflies that never know sleep. There, time becomes sweet like a grape. There, glowing songs go out every morning to the store next to our house to buy a bike and a hat to reach the furthest point of my brown skin. Then, I was there, yes, flying, extending my hand to a faint cloud, Then I smiled, what a strange joy.
Me and you, a night without night and satisfaction without satisfaction. Me and you, an unquenchable joy. What happiness.
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He is the old friend who plays with children and sits in front of passersby with all gentleness. He is the shepherd of the field and a great cattle player. He came down to us with warmth full of love to teach the stony hearts the meaning of loyalty. Even the deserts and forests know how pure a dog can be, so when hands touch his pure soul, it becomes softer and cleaner. He carries love on his back, greetings in his eyes and a very expressive tail. He is a forgotten and persecuted painting, but those who knew him wrote on their pages the most beautiful stories in which he was the hero and the pure friend.
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COLD GODBYE
I will stay here alone, behind the silence and behind the curtain. Yes, I will stay alone without you because I knew what pain is like? And what is the only love? And I knew how deadly are the moments of coldness? This coldness kills me slowly, steals my soul and reminds me of lonely nights. It is the bitter coldness that stole my smile. I am not saying goodbye to you, I said goodbye to the smile a long time ago.
WARM GODBYE
I will stumble a lot among your goals and paths that you left inside me. And I will sit alone at sunset remembering everything beautiful. It is not a song but a moment of warmth that I cannot hide. Rather, I shyly repeat the words of longing, and with all my tenderness I touch your warm soul. I am not saying goodbye to you, I am saying goodbye to my smile.
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Gypsies


The Gypsy Girl
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