Poetry is a whisper

My feelings flew away and illusion is a branch

Imagination does not accompany feelings

I write poetry, and my imagination has departed

So is poetry useful in what is happening?

The imagination of poetry has salt, if it is not

in it, it does not deserve it

So how can we say lyrical poetry

if the feeling in it is incomplete?

I thought about who said poetry

Old, what perfumes it has

Poetry thinks it has meters and words

Except for a meaning that has a chest

I remain, so I do not say poetry is incapable

So do not send joy to my tablet

And it was said, how much poetry I have said

Without thinking, their saying is vanity

Poetry has ruined me for long days

So matters did not please its poet

If poetry were the barking of a dog

Poetry would have been confined to lines

But poetry is the product of thought

And events have a role in people

And the poet of all events is a tongue

If it occurs, he records what boils

And I do not believe the poets who said

Because the people of poetry are a great devil

For poetry is a whisper that we see

From the mouths of the world it flies

I am innocent of its words about us

If there is no devil in it

I am not a devil, a poet who inspires it

The brother of the whisper in my heart revolts

For poetry does not see after a while

For poetry in the world is blind