It is insane that while your heart jumps at evening on the strings of a harp, while your beloved lady’s hair flies with every breeze of jazz, while you wash up at morning under showers of gardens sounds, but yet you put on a colorless helmet and go out to hunt butterflies.
It is insane that while you read the silence of a Sufi, while you travel inside a painting dangling from a rainbow, while you reside in a flute’s mouth, but yet you applaud to cacophonies.
It is insane that while you dandle a bird by your watery fingertips, while you wrap your little girl’s dreams by a kiss with the taste of a pigeon’s coo, while you sail into a foam of Cordovan fountains, but yet you dance on the blood of a slaughtered ‘Thor’ at Andalusia.
It is insane that while you warm your free dream by a salute of the tower dove, while you calm your burnt bosom by shivers of remote winters, while you fly around through of hot bread aroma, but yet you climb up a pile of smoke and leave your bare shadow defenseless on the sidewalk.
It is insane that while you take carefulness from a tortoise, while you learn courage from thorns, and wisdom from a crow, but yet you put on a suit sewn of chameleon skin.
It is insane that while you draw a circle in a river, by a brush of pure stone, while you swim in a tear of a sad willow, while you comb the hair of a nymph by your breaths, but yet you urinate into a sea.
It is insane that while you gift cold nights with a basket of embers, while you decorate grey times with colored tales, while you pick up from the sun a lost thread of light, but yet you throw your countenance at invaders’ feet.
It is insane that while you play with Tom and Jerry, while you make friends with the Pink Panther, while you show Alice the way to her bedroom, but yet you throw your rotten shoes at the face of a virgin forest.
It is insane that while you hold Gulliver’s dwarfs in your eyes, while you darn the torn-out dress of an orphan dull, while you write a poem for an ant, but yet you kneel to giants.
It is insane that while you broaden your visions at the shore’s sand, while you live along a Bedouin infinite roundelay, but yet you dwell on the surface of a scentless, tasteless paper.
It is insane that while you go back to initial crossroads at the bottom of a cave, while you dabble your lips by a ripened water-drop, but yet you leave yourself in a mirror.
It is insane that while you roll on green fields, while you fly up on desire’s wings, but yet you fill your belly with resentment and sausages.
It is insane that while you go after a lost galaxy, while you take mother Earth in your arms, but yet you imprison yourself in a box.
It is insane that while you open doors for the wind, while you open on horizons a gallery for Dawn, but yet you buy a bouquet of rubber roses to your bedroom.
It is insane that while you like for others what you like for yourself, while you give half of your loaf to foundling fish, but yet you take for your breakfast the tongue of a blue whale.
It is insane that while you attend funerals of respectful elephants, while you sing the seasons hymn together with wild swan flocks, but yet you hang in your ears a marble earring and a sparrow’s beak.
It is insane that while you plant every night a kiss on the moon that stays at your quarter, while you water grasses by silver, but yet you turn your back to the dark face.
It is insane that while you fall in love with a brick at Damascus roofs, while you adorn a Sumerian urn at Mosul’s nights, but yet you shoot a bullet at Zenobia’s scarf.
Zenobia: the queen of Syria (240-274 AD), rebelled against Roman Empire, arrested and persecuted.
It is insane that while you winnow your wheat grains through your holed palms, while you give your lips to brooks, but yet you give your voice to pillars of noise.
It is insane that while you cover yourself by a cloak, while you heavily arm your waist by chastity belts, but yet you give the keys to thieves.
It is insane that while furze illuminates the day by its flowers, while it holds spearheads in the face of conquerors, but yet it distributes fragrance on the nose-less.
It is insane that while you travel to the West’s end or to the East’s end, but yet you do not remember that journeys all are endless.
It is insane that while you reserve for yourself a diamond palace in heaven, and a boat at the river of paradise, but yet you spit out your smoke into goddesses’ lungs.
It is insane that while you scatter your good wishes over waves, while you send your salutes by the river’s roars, but yet you wrap your shoulders by the fur of a cute squirrel.
It is insane that while you give your hands to the hungry, while you bestow your eyelashes to eyes without a ceiling, while you grant your legs to escapees from Gomorrah’s fire, but yet you clap to eagles.
It is insane that while you pamper your dandled car, while you shake dust off glass doors, but yet you leave your head to rust.
It is insane that while you love a wandering star, while you welcome spring by a ride on a swallow’s wing, but yet you cover your tongue by sugar and flies.
It is insane that while your cypress tree climbs up on a ladder of air, while its root looks for a grain of water deep, while you tune the dance of clock-hands on your wall, but yet you divide your legs at every split.
It is insane that while you hear whispers of the deeps in the heart of an oyster, while you catch ululates in an orange’s skin, while you enjoy lilts in an inscription at a grotto’s shadows, but yet you sell compact kitsch in the markets.