Where poetry is water, a cloud of perfume and rain, circling around the playing fields and the hum of things, only the poem is, when the poet’s soul is present, and his eternal, shortened yearning is present at the dock of wishes and the nooks of words. The moment of poetry is the poet’s feeling and pulse, his dream, and his vast, generous imaginations, a moment. The growing love, spreading the light within us, as if quenching a thirst. Poetry is imagination, and perhaps a supplication creeps from behind words to make a supplication and weave a story. True poetry is us with all the beauty we carry and the feelings we harbor. It is something that flows like magic, making the moon rise. The poem is some words that express us, and they may not express us, they leave us with pain and fatigue, as if the alphabet in its hidden secret refuses to be us/us, to become strangers to us. Here is an attempt to translate the self, and another attempt to express the other in some way, which may make him one of those whom the words here draw. . In this literary work, I, you, and them, let us read with love, color the sky with joy, and follow the words.