Before Dusk Said Sky

Tetiba, a cup of coffee tastes bitter, when I meet Solomon's sun condenses on the rest of our warmth
on a Teak table dinner, before dusk.

Your eyes ; home to the melodious poems of Ishmael, his gaze often put to sleep anxiety, perfecting the meaning of light. But heaven wrote your name, planted your body behind the ground, rewarded my memories in a facial rain.

When are we?
Like a warm spring breeze; bringing peace to hills, fields, leaves, and butterflies. But not by sea. Because, the waves of the waves do not always bring the news of longing lost in the island of poetry women, as well as you.

There is a different color in this cup of coffee, master. Maybe gray, but thick. Even if my words touched, sipped just a little, you thought there was no sweetness of a pain, a piece of separation, and the rest of you would know very well.

Before the twilight is declared the sky, I hope your name is orange, so that the blue bruises in the chest are dimmed, and enough of Ismail's melodious poems are not tired to read, not unambiguously guessed until the end of age.