My name is Amin. I love writing the truth more than fiction
a waste . Toner
A writer in the national and its axis
The dim light column
Street light. the stranger
The dream is lost like the fog
The eyes and pen are false
A liar looking for hymns
After mixing with the evil of the night ...
They write. Waste ink
Their testimony is a wall in a house
And more concerned than the country
They only dream about the dynamite prize.
They write what they do not read
And certificates are enough for everyone ..
Some under study
And some in the minister's office
Ten years ago ..
Not everyone. He passed from here. Camel
And the writer deviates
from fearing that they will deny him
Of writing in the newspaper
And they write and write what
is a waste of ink ...
© 2018 tabouche amin