Trapped in the front cover
Of outer passions
I believe in unfaithful deceits
With the trust of an irremovable pureness
I keep my mind intact
Even in the play ,
In that subtle boundary
Between the true and the false
The true lie and the simply unsaid
The fiction and the reality
Which someone still call life .
I am the image
The mirror of my desires
The journey that I haven’t done.
The missing piece of the puzzle
O maybe the last verse of an unwritten poetry.
The first note of a mute symphony
of unexpressed music.
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