Hair in love

Love is the most wonderful feeling ever, for the moments of love are absolutely unforgettable, and they remain immortal for life, and the strange thing is that no matter how hard and painful love remains in our hearts and minds, it is like a beautiful and fragrant flower; if the flower dries up and its fragrances are left and only the thorns remain, do not forget that it has granted you A beautiful fragrant day made you happy. The flower may express harsh, painful love, and if you cannot hold it well it may hurt the hand that was extended to it.

In love, there are people who enter our life and leave deep traces in it; so these traces are a path that takes us towards absolute happiness, and after that you start discovering the world again as if you are a little child who does not know everything in life, or you are a hidden treasure that needs a great explorer to dig deep inside you to find those The pure jewel, which unfortunately you did not see in yourself, so the beloved creates confidence in you, and then your dreams become closer to the vein and easier than the imagination.

In love, the moments of irrational living begin, moments of change, reincarnation of imaginary characters, and living moments as if we were the greatest love at all. Feelings and feelings, and make you breathe air.

Hair in love

It is very difficult to express the words of love without poems and poems. It is not only love that romanticism lives; rather, the madness of love is to express it with words and poems emanating from the heart, and express feelings. Among the poems of love:
  • Blossom withers in the eyes
And life, my world, is consumed by years
Tomorrow we will separate
And our tears are revolting and suffocating
Our candles once illuminated our path
And tomorrow, with the longing we will burn

  • I am very crazy
You are wise
I am fleeing the paradise of reason
You are wise
I leave summer for you
So leave me the winter coups

  • Have you ever seen love?
Away from the lover, he is kind
Every hour passes forever
And every hour it becomes absent
The heart of overabundance is drunk
The eye is free to cry flames
And longing is a disease that is not cured
Wise was a fortune-teller or a doctor

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