Leave me this guy I All the folded me I love all the creams of the world that all the shower I have I paint the height of your seven -day period I have a headache Still Cut the Voice Looks in the streets to cry in your breasts to get drunk in the alleys Look to see this broken bed is constantly stressful See this burnt lighting light Look how Banan is crying with my voice Say the tears of your first night Sitting water mirage Just torture torture is tormented to cry out your breasts Drunk in the streets to cry out your breasts Drunk in the streets You were always as much as a orphan We were in the field You have not dreamed of my life. Suppose the pain is Tecilla, which I drink Suppose this is my last bit of poetry I am writing and writing and stray, Ninoush I wrote and write. .
