poem| The F Squadron
Prancing in the atmosphere,
Spreading death there, and here,
Thinking of herself a god can fit,
but nobody but God will stop it.
I lie enjoying her fragrant music,
Torturing my weakly thoughts and phobic;
Black revelry stimulates my blood to boil;
Saturated with the sacred Arab oil.
Under that high mountain of sadness,
The sea is roaring; The sea of madness.
لمتابعة جديد المقالات، إحتفظ بـ الخلاصات أو إشترك بـ القائمة البريدية لتصلك المقالات إلى إيميلك - [؟] [ قرأها 94 ] [ نسخة للطباعة ]
