In Golestan there grows a rose. The rose of the valleys, the rose of the storm. Sharon and Shirin is her name, she brought two old peoples to disarray. She made them lie and believe that hatred is effortless – at least it seems.
In multitudes they come. Unheard they die. Unpunished they stay. The fantasies. Of married men.
Deep was the wetness of that night, a woman robbed her man of his pride. Rumor spread and fight was looming, The town envied, disapproving. Whatever she did, she loved the thrill. Tenderness, love and the silent chill. All those things that make your will disappear. In life we pay the price, For…
Satan is your hurdle. Will fails.
Lust is on your mind. First and foremost.
Of knights and love, stories they could tell, instead they rage like raven men. They rage like falcons over deserts and mountain tops, to pray for those who for pride lost their hearts. To prey on those who for madness lost their minds.
In state of roguery I deny, that for love of God I shall die. In state of mindlessness I confess, that simple love-making would be the best.
In a faraway kingdom beyond the seas, there was a man, there was a prince. For love he would die and he gladly did, in murky days of his kingdom he won’t be missed. He fell in love with a girl, from the other side she came, nobody liked her besides her beloved man….
Fog and mist are to blame. For mind so dark, yet mundane Murderous, black and without sense. Kafka I met, on my way to hell.