The night is still waiting.
The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.
There are no winners in real games.
The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.
Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.
Some people complain there are too many people on earth, Some people complain about secret societies, Some people accuse others of not being able to wake up early. Almost all people complain about something.