It's very difficult to give voice to what we haven't said
Birds are beautiful,
They give voice to the unknown paths that are hidden in homes, forests, and within
We move toward those revealed places
of which information is found in unverified wars in the fragmentations that fill,
The stories of our broken experiences
But this is not like giving voice to love
Love is filled with endless caverns
with countless anthills and nests
Its expression is also unexpressed
and the unexpressed is also expressed
It is very difficult for me to know what I haven't said
I am a person on the opposite side
If I say that the blossoming of my hidden voice
is like poetry,
it is not like a voice
it is like that suppressed identity
that lies beyond the unsaid
That is, paths like those of birds are not impossible.
When I repeat my voice
especially in the fibers of things, the soft grasses,
the endless breath of love and the leaves spread on them With drops,
or with them, every time the darkness of an ocean
dissipates.
A statue peeks out from its carved form
It disappears, not recreated, toward a new one
Unwritten lines are written
By repeating the signs of life
Which perhaps will someday be recognized
So many vague memories
With their dim glow sounds rubbing
As if the strings of an instrument are hanging
On the trees
The wind hits them again and again
We hear this sudden music
Returning to the streets of everyday life
I repeat to myself
Music, love, and you
So that before I disappear
I can cling to you as much as I can
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 馃槉馃檹 
