My relationship with a happy friend is not a poet's relationship, nor a poet’s relationship with a poet; it is at its heart a relationship between an orphan. Farbathis with his hair is irrelevant to his role and value in the dispersion of the modern hair text and his escape from his traditional orbits, but because this poet is exactly back to him whenever I remember my father's body lying down a wooden table. «Smile regret.» Which makes it «A beautiful poem that forgets us or makes us forgive an ancient hate.»And between the brackets,Gaston Bashler.

All the hair I read after that was to absorb that scene, and to understand what happened to me at that confusing and complex moment, poetry wasn't impossible after my father was gone, it was more possible than ever, especially if it was a poet like a happy morning, from which I learned at my poetic beginnings how to turn the sorrow in the toilet hand into words, and I promise my youth to attend my father.

I write about a delightfulness to celebrate the warmth of loss and the warmth of the thin soup, with the hair that inspires in the original sense abhorrent pyramids of fermental imagination:

«I'm going to the woods with the robbers.

And with their surprise.

Cut my dreams and throw them in the fire.

The robbers say:

The Yabbs is cut.»I'm sorry.

My friend asked me more than ten years ago about the feasibility of poetry; then I was in a position to formulate a proper response, and I found that clavicle and flare would give up any answer that would dissipate his suspicion and doubt, so the hair would not go beyond being a childish adult on the chest of the language. «Lightning.»And...«dust.»And...«Water»And...«A passenger seat left the bus.»And...«Probably because of a cloud.»I'm sorry. I'll leave the answer to a happy deposit; it's a poet who doesn't know what to pretend and look, just writes a pure hair that he likes from an elusive imagination, a hair that takes on the severity of our experience in this world.

I realized that our poems were written to parents who didn't exist, parents who left behind, sons who grew up inside orphaned, lonely and insane:

«Why do I remember my father now?

I was a kid when I drove him to the grave.

But they were looking at me.

And it was nice to grow up in front of them.»I'm sorry.

Happiness begins in his hairy obsession with combustion and flammatory options, written with a glorious memory, founded in a tuna that invents ash alphabet and retrieves its experience at the entire cosmic barbecue party:

«When I last invited him.

That was on the beach.

Then it escalates from our house.

Smoke had burned meat.

And my father became a black skeleton.

I got up and took one last look at his coal.

I went pregnant alone.»I'm sorry.

A fragile organism that rejects the hair, which is proposed to be heroic and inflammatory, rejects a mission that borrows its faint presence in a text full of rubble; the text that does not reflect the inflammation of the soul, the inflammation of the body, turns the poem into arrogant shrine to save the crease of the hair itself, must give rise to a dynamism.

«Now I admit I invented many lies of words.

What I said and what I wrote was nothing but a lie.

Son of a bastard for a crazy imagination.

What I said and wrote was a betrayal of words.

That's what I demand for innocence.

And I'm doing the bitch with her.

I shattered the clouds.

And I darkened bird feathers and saw wood.

I shattered the tree when I said it was looking.

And the mountains if you wear them feet.

When I brought their bones back to life,

And life when I brought her back to the dead.»I'm sorry.

His scripts crave the imagination and dive deep in the feeling:

«We climb our laughs.

Because we scream so hard.»I'm sorry.

It is true poetry that leads you with determination to no-face and no-name, which exposes you from a strawberry-shaped robe, to rise naked without features:

«I got the last point.

Am I the one looking for a melt or am I?

Or am I, too much to look for his melting, I've gone like him.»I'm sorry.

The hair is a vision that ranges from childhood to death, given that poetry is only met by self-responsiveness. «Writing from scratch.»- What? By proposing the patent of the beginnings, not as some say in the minds of writing without prejudices and prejudices, a position of existence is not based on a vacuum, it raises an awareness of a comprehensive vision and a total sense of happiness, and death, as a inevitable and final fact, does not find the equilibrium of solutions, but a vibrant vocabulary with which it is open. «Missing text» Watch this existential obsession:

«I extend my hand signals to the voices that have gone far,

And bring her back to the throat.

Spray her a shirt under the wool of the Indians,

I sleep near her.

In this little place,

Where he plays soft and dead cards,

And they share roles.»I'm sorry.

The absence of a more happy hair than a picture; once he writes about the absence of the place:

«Says who stayed in the village.

That a strange dog came all night.

It's in front of their homes.»I'm sorry.

Another time comes as a lack of meaning:

«Whoever loves his kids doesn't give them his picture.

Don't give them the same.

Don't leave them a memory.

…

Who loves his children gives them forget.»I'm sorry.

Sadness in genuine good hair, and disappointment, is not anxious for everyone to convince the seriousness of their grief:

«I don't think the land is loaded except.

The density of the gods.

……

All this wind is nothing but

Horses.»I'm sorry.

Thank you very much, because with all that honesty, this wound, and this incendiary language that goes through the spirit, I have a certain plan for tonight, but to talk to a generous woman who gives the evening a night to hug the distant face of the moon and read your texts that give the evening brothers!

The question of modernity in the poetic text is no longer controversial, as it was in the past, since modernizing as a structural situation in the text is now beyond the shape to the deeper.

And as part of our reading of the Ammanian poet's religion, "I'll grow in the wind."which includes 20 hairdressers in which forms vary and which unite in one artistic value is the pursuit of conscious modernization.

"I'm gonna plant in the wind a lump of blind poetry, a shiny hair group that promises us with heavy rains of fresh poems and carries with it a world of intense awareness and questions, deep details of the coded poetry.

"I'm nobody." An inauguration of operational poetry makes us stand at the idea of the intentional denial of me/self, which is undoubtedly a fundamental topic of modern hair worldwide, that it is a passive exile of poetry and proof of its hair at the same time, and in the poem it is a kind of accountability of the world for its human self- position, which blurs and diminishes the cylinder of life and its coldness.

"I don't count,

I'm desperate for a root and a stretch.

I'm the sound of a wind blowing up the promise of death."

That's how it's denied the charge of being there, and that's the worm of poetry all the time, but then the link of the poetry to the state of exile and extermination to other elements represented by wind, despair and the tide and carrot movement seems to be an intentional symbolic reflection of another kind of existential formation represented by the poetry.

"I'm the tear of the grief that's shattered on the face of life coming from cheek to cheek

I'm the object that went out,

And no magic is returning the mortal in a dead body.

I'm an absent alphabet who fled to the homelands asking her the sorrow about the stretch."

In this intense poetry, a number of things can be referred to in the form of key observations that tilt the tide from what we have called from the beginning: in pursuit of a literary artifact, the first of them is the language in which the poet is wearing a symbolic rig and the reincarnation of its existential experience.

The idea of home is also part of the poetry ' s quest to modernize with an intellectual consciousness, with which poems become a bearer of meaning and of the ideology that instils the contemporary human being with his screams and anxiety about existence, life and living reality, one day and a moment of a moment, also in the direction of a philosophy in the hair that heated Eliot in Earth.

"My home, my bucket." A poem in the country that redefines the country beyond the limits of subordination and greater than the country ' s land meaning.

"My home who enlisted names and visions

It describes the light in the vest.

He distributes days at the top of the rivers.

My patriotic palms and her cousin's son.

The house of the poem and the stake.

And on his plans, the old stone valley set a light.

And people saw the night wax.

They celebrate the home to which the path was captured,

With the vision of the fire...

It's a real homeland that's high-minded symbol, and it's a densely populated home, and it's a imaginary, imaginary, imaginary, and imaginary-style-style-style-style-style character.

This modern poetry continues to pass in touch with other situations and unconscious areas of perception and triumph over its entireties, including the search for poetry in cosmic human values such as the value of love, which is not conceived as a crooked comic, but by the same poetry.

"I love you and the sea you

And you're the poem high in the talking.

I love you and magic.

And you're the boy in the arts of the place.

I love you how much the sea sounds, Spirit Day...

In the language of this section, this is a modern sleeve, which tends to link the value of love to other elements of hair, such as poems, speech and arts, and it is not about benths or hair that discusses poetry, to the extent that it is a deliberate choice of art that defines great human values with unique beauty elements.

'Cause you're a female.

"You pass a port opening...

A rhythm.

You're the water.

And you're the truth.

If it weren't for you, she wouldn't be in the wilderness.

What she had with the baggage.

What she showed up with farm songs.

"What's the silence of the belt and the rash."

There is no doubt that the issue of females is not at the threshold of creativity; it is a subject that finds its impact on intellectual and social research on a wide scale; what the poem here does is that it links female privacy with the great existential questions and the elements of beauty in nature, so that females can be made a condition of persistence, reassurance and reservoir in the universe; this vision is intersected with the notion of ceremonial ceremoniality and the mindset.

And what can be said in conclusion is that Diwan"I'll grow in the wind. It provides a picture of the new and serious poetry that triumphs for modernization and modern poem, especially that poem that creates its style and builds on cultural dimensions that are reinforced by vision and language.

It wasn't a passing moment, no false cultural taste, no instant event, in his hair life, approaching the east, it was an internal coup and a profound revolution, reshaping his vision of poetry and correcting his vision towards the world. Since he set up a coercion in the city of Mikhailovskwe, Bushkin has flew from its balcony on another world, a world led by words, once he has not seen or found it in the west: wisdom, moral dimension, human voice, which transcends space.

In those years that our friend lived in the city of Mikhailovskwe, captured on it, read the Quran and Persian poetry, which later enabled him to reconsider the meaning and role of the poet, from his spiritual life to a new, adventure-rich poetry experiment, made up of nine blocks, the most controversial experience: «Quran simulation.»I'm sorry.

This poem was not the new tone and the recipients of it, a religious tradition, and no instinctive attempt to represent Islam from within it. «I work for the Koran glory.»- What? He did not say in the glory of God, that phrase showed the distance that the Russian poet sun set between moral admiration and religious belief.

The sign is in his poem. «Quran simulation.» What appears to have been not only read the Koran, but has gone through it, as it appears to have been familiar with the Prophet, it has photographed a picture of the Arab Prophet that is approaching some of its features from historical reality. «Inside.» It is the vision of an eloquently examined reader, who saw in the text he read, a moral stream and a great poetic spirit, that is, he held enormous energy and made it a mirror of his own questions. "The deep art work is not understood from first reading, it reveals a layer after another, and the holy books of its reader are revealed with recurrence."

The East cognitive magnet not only stops when it attracts Bushkin to the Koran, but finds the reader in his hair, sometimes shows white traces of the Sofis Saadi al-Shirazi and Al-Shirazi governors, and despite the lack of conclusive evidence that he directly misreaded their texts in early-sensuals, but many of them are not very popular. «Easter flower.»I'm sorry.

In his poem. «Who kept it?»- What? The overlap between personal experience and the Eastern code may seem remarkable. The war in the poem was nothing but a backdrop, but only a mask, although there were indications of its rejection, such as: «But I'm afraid, in the midst of battle, you lose your delicate shyness in the moves...»- What? The true God is alienation, existential test, beauty as a lifesaver and salvation, and when the King of Death mentions Ezrael in the same poem: «Azrael among the swords will see your beauty.»- What? It does not point to him as a threat, but rather as a creative force that deflects beauty, retreats from his throat, as did the great plight of Jamal Ibn Yakub, Yusuf al-Nabi, in the Islamic Methology, and here lies the truth, when the Russian poet meets Bushkin in his hair with the spirit of sliding slide in the hair of the deep, the Persian Sharid, the Sofid.

But the farther and deeper impact of his career has come from the wisest, the Persian poet Saadi al-Shirazi, who found «Sasha.» It has a uniquely prosperous, morally balanced sample of beauty and meaning. The presence of Saadi in Bushkin's hair was not a quotation, meaning, meaning or language combination, if it was a complete vision; his wisdom could be echoed in more than one of his actions. «A fountain with a secret.» To a conclusion. «I'm getting rich.»So he said: «Some of them don't exist anymore, others are far away.»I'm sorry.

A poem. «Grapes.»Bushkin wrote one of his finest and sweetest poetic moments, when he compared the late spring rose to the mature grape fruit in the fall, in a quiet good trade between fast beauty and careful dictation, some Russian critics see in this poem. «Breathe from Saadi's writings.»Most of his books. «Boston and Grayton.» Bushkin has succeeded and excelled the classic Persian spirit in Russian structure, without tradition and tyranny.

Even his poem. «Arab simulation.»- What? It also comes from Saadi's origin, from a story of friendship and love, where two people die to become. «Two nuts in one crust.» Not surprisingly, he visited Shiraz's son in Baghdad, and he wrote in Arabic on a few of what he wrote. «The legacy of Baghdad.» After being occupied by Mongolia, as he wrote in Persian — often written — it was indeed the peaceful bridge between two cultures, and perhaps the smoke of burning in Baghdad reached Bushkin through the poem of Sa ' ad, or through his reading of his vertebra, he decided to call the threshold of the text an Arab simulation, in the sense of Saadi, who inherited Baghdad.

Thus, between the Koran, Sadi and Waqf, another East Bushkin poet, a well-known, morally questionable, not the mythical east, has changed the path of the officer's daughter to irreversible change. If Bushkin is at the beginning of a Western poet, the years of Mikhailovskoy have made him a cosmic poet, he sees in the east another mirror of man, poetry and fate.

After that stage, the East no longer adds to Bushkin's hair, it became part of his hair, and light in his eyes on the world.

Give him a haircut before anyone introduces him; anything Ahmed Bakhit was betting when he went to the vertical poem with a slap on all other forms of poem?

Those who know Ahmad Bekhit are well aware that he keeps many poems for the free-haired, and he knows that he has not taken a hostile position on the Nathor poem. This poem was written at a time when the experiment had reached its purpose in the poetry of Egypt and the Arab trains of the 1970s, and the poem would have been removed from the yard completely, especially since the opening of the cultural poles in the 1900s had been found to write the free hair and the poem that had been seen as a clerical clerk.

After reading the third millennium, the awards in support of this poem have begun to follow in the Arab world. The vertical poet is born in Egypt, the legitimacy of his presence receives the progress he has made in these awards or the glowing of these platforms, and a little later until a new generation has joined this scene; it is an internal bond, and support for the restoration of a spirit of close-to-secure poemia.

During this period, Ahmad Bakhit Tagi was in his presence, and his influence was not only on the rise in Egypt, but on the Arab world from the ocean to the bay. The poets were following and preserving his poems, denying him and discouraging him. What did Ahmed Bakhit submit until this effect happened?

Ahmed Bakhit, who I know, and is known to others, dissolved the difficult equation, but in his own way, did not reproduce the experience of Mahmoud Darwish, nor do he give up to the tyranny of hope of transferring the plain-cloth of the case... instead of the popularity of poets, but he kept the poem with its full music, and he didn't slide into a rhin.

Through 20 deputies -- his full poetry work now in my hands -- Ahmed Bekhit deals with his outstanding nation ' s issues, speaks of Palestine, Iraq, Syria, Libya, Yemen and Egypt, he confines the desert, searches for water, loves humans, spells them, occasionally adjudicates them, runs their back, a full-time and safe house, searches them for a full time and space.

And my daughter, testify to your father.

Have I met and died?

They're two metres from Dini.

For the dress that I cry

Did I cut you off?

Or did I expand the house?

This denial of life may come from a firm conviction that reaches to be a key to his poetic personality, succumbing to his sense that his age is short, and if so, the presence must be as abductive as lightning, and the effect is enormous:

I'm a guest of the world and I'm about to say good-bye.

I was born with a rhythm and my journey with her.

The lust of words is to assassinate its creator.

The hidden presence that lights the world, disappears after people have been identified to light, so Ahmed Bekhit has spent his entire life - and he has now lost his six-year-olds - this intermittent appearance even in his poetry, as if in every appearance he is reborn, then dies and disappears, every appearance of life, every absence of death, every life in constant time, age of lightning, life, life of the sunset, life, life, life, life, life, and the life of his life, and his life.

A little bit. I'll call my landlord.

And light as any flask.

At the performance level, Ahmed Bakhit is not the poet of the Revolutionary Manstatics, but the poet of the brightest contracts, ignoring his fathers together, radiating every single home as a unique pearl, which preserves the lipsticks that untiringly disguise him, and that's the secret of history.

Time comes and affection comes west.

And hate is our town that we're colonizing.

I sold out all of them.

And I'm the son of the Nile Valley and my name is the flower.

It does not take historical symbols and signals in its hair; it uses them as kisses that give cooks their own distinctive flavor, the reader does not have to open the mines or engage in cultural research, and it tends to use the symbol or sign only to be used by the traded goods, who choose their time to escape the situation, a light flare that does not obey or otherwise obey the strategy.

Good afternoon novels.

They killed my brother-in-law.

Secure Arabs above horseback.

To Arabs in the songbook?!

These two houses, with their references and symbols, the Rashid, the Abu Al-Asfahani, and the songbook, were able to deliver the poetry message, completely away from the power-slash, which, if present, would have been attached to him sitting in the first grades, a licence given to every artist and the Sultan.

In addition to maximizing the symbols and signals in the structure and structure, the stereotyping of the ancestors comes not from the express opposition, but as a result of the higher models of the art that affected Ahmed Bakhit, the models of the car; the appearance of ancestors appears to be extremely flawed, providing them with a tremendous capacity to pluck the impact, we ran into a canni as a barfish, but a shade. And so on, but in any case it's not her:

You forget the dates. You forget the dates.

Even the doughnuts forget it.

You forget the seats as perfume as you forget.

Students voted in the summer.

By itself: interviews and signatures, they resort to public language in order to exhort them, to apprehend poetry from the public, to revive the language and electrification of the situation, to win over and alert the non-Egyptian public, as well as to foreign language, rhetoric and flag names:

Enough to complete the message.

And be thankful to include your cheek.

This is about Ahmed Bakhit, who I know, but about Ahmed Bakhit who I don't know; he drives a soft turn, a heartbeat, and he's got a haircut, and he's got a haircut.

If he was in his place, he might be happy, but what others say is unpleasant.

It'll come a morning without lovers.

No songs, no inspiration.

There's gonna be a morning.

To perfume, love and right.

To a kiss she didn't get.

To a date without others.

And here she turns here to:

Tomorrow morning without lovers.

No songs, no inspiration.

She'll wake up the park from her sleep.

And miss the perfume and the right.

And cry pillows. She cries napkins.

She cries and eye rose.

On a kiss you didn't get lips.

On a date without others.

Changed to the point of ruining the script, dispelling its spiritual power, as well as doing in its "the witness's knee" poem, saying, "Let me walk," and it was "I walk to walk."

I walk to walk and that's my answer.

About the chaos of these organs.

And maybe it's a whole house:

On the date of love we met.

With the whistle for the spring.

From his poem,

Poor. I'm not the stars.

You sleep a lot on my finger.

I'm not handsome, but...

Be handsome and you're with me.

The intervention of the cognitive mind at Ahmed Bakhit often removes his legendary performance, even if it is psychologically motivated as I say, and I hope that the motive is not to forget, or what makes him replace the word "Akvani" with the word "Dwani" in saying:

And if I have my beautiful vein, maybe

Mints from Akvani.

The reading of the whole poem from which this house is located cannot belong to the word "dewani" to its world, not to mention that it deviates the receipt from the kidney to the private, from the human to the person.

Another matter with the issue of revision along with the replacement and deletion of Ahmad Bakhit ' s poems in the context of talking about a self-sustaining coup, is to drop the excitement and not to mention the inspiration, and may be behind it, as I have stated that the text should remain open to all, as it has done in the projection of the paternity of Abdul Latif Abdul Halim, our professor in the House of Science.

What's poetry except a man outside?

Who cares about her?

It may be technically motivated in this poem that deals with the fall of Andalus, with the drop on the Arab reality, although Abu Hamam, who studied in Spain, can be a typical mask to talk about it, yet with the artistic motive to drop the gift, the question remains: why did Ahmed Baghett keep other names to which the poems were given, such as giving him a clothless poem?

This and the reader of this group will not fail to stop in front of the abstract of his gifts in his hometown: "South moon," which he gave to his mother, saying, "To my mother, Ratib Muhammad Ali, under which he is located: "Ahmed Ben Ratib."

And Abu Al-Tayyib went through the bully.

Alone as it should be.

If I had previously pointed out that Ahmed Bekhit did not fully implicate himself in the symbol and did not enslave him the historical signal, he was touching them with a light touch, reminding them as they were; relying on the consortium cultural inventory of his recipients, selecting the most dead and rude, as he did in his poem: "The beloved prayed to him and Muslims" when they were removed from the peace story of Joseph.

Above the shirt, blood above the conscience.

And they're still from here to here.

I say, if I mentioned earlier in the conversation about Ahmed Bakhit, who I know, Ahmad Bekhit, the gallery of Ahmed Bakhit, who filled the world and occupied people, is working to undermine it; he tries to open other areas by setting the symbol full poem, deviating his partial treatment as well as providing for his holistic treatment, a situation that is not common in his writing strategies:

For the last moment of age alone.

And you and your tribal face against me.

You gamble me to buy a decade.

Fatima and earrings here.

Ahmed Bakhit does not excite his poems with complex cultural cargo, but the last Ahmad Bakhit resistance pushes him to cultural research, philosophy and interpretation:

I learned to interpret prophecy here.

And in my first day, I saw another.

I wish in a poem: "Bye, Desert," an advanced poem on his long-distance poetry journey, in which the history of the Arab poetry is most likely, and he gave her a rich introduction, and he appalled it with unconventional mines, so that the rich side could not deviate from the poetry side of the sternal era, both of which is a reality. With regard to philosophy, three poems have been concluded throughout the size of the poetry plant, namely, Cairo, Al-Hadi and the Negos, in which he moved from the question that sometimes reached the polite blasphemy to try to respond to human suffering:

And you will knock on God's door one day.

And ask him with a false blasphemy.

Wasn't all this sadness enough?

To satisfy your tortured successor?

Believing that life is a human experience, a human being must find solutions, or at least find a way to live with dilemmas, to maintain and adapt to them:

Didn't you give me that dirt?

To tell him the noble idiot.

In these three heights, Ahmed Bakhit tries to positively meet the philosopher; to understand what happened, or what was it, in the way of the father of Al-Ala al-Amri, the writers of Al-Musrah, John Milton; and to present in the poem of Cairo a comprehensive review of Egypt and its relationship with the world, searching for answers in the midst of details, events and figures:

Field rose, poem name.

You weren't full, dreamy, drunk.

No coincidence and first step.

Last sister and long way.

Life casts life on her question.

Items

He also does in a poem: Al-Hadi, and if the treatment takes a different form in a poem: "Nucus" that refers to my father's naked al-Aladi.

I say that this soft coup is due to the fact that Ahmed Bakhit does not like to repeat himself, repeat others or repeat others; his hair is the saviour of repetition:

Hair is like living in a goat.

No children come back twice for their mother.

At the rhythm level, Ahmed Bakhit is leading a rebellion over his enthusiastic rhythms, but he is insurgent in front of the rule of these rhythms and these hollows.

A nation will survive the whale of Yonis.

And the first sailing beach, Tones.

I'm wrong with my kids' name because

Call them all on behalf of Tunisia?