The story and the pen

I think about the night of my words' Israa, and their forgetfulness in a Kawthar in the stars, and their stories that made them a deposit for that complete circle that is centered in the sky in the middle of each month! I have become sipping light from around me... to dwell in that darkness that invades my soul from within... to give that silence something of the noise that I have started to miss, then I took it with both hands. Carrying in my innermost a forgiveness called pain!... For the curse of the first line still stares strangely into the corners of my letters, waiting for me to throw something at one of my slaves of pens so he suffers from the hallucination that struck him with the madness of the last line, my writings have become merely a luxurious invitation to despair and gloom, scattering grains of sand into the water of my thoughts and corrupting it... And maybe the opposite... My mind's table is filled with conflicting types of ideas... I think I will be struck with madness.