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| تاریخ | رشد مشترکین | اشارات | کانالها | |
| 22 سپتامبر | 0 | |||
| 21 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 20 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 19 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
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| 15 سپتامبر | +2 | |||
| 14 سپتامبر | +4 | |||
| 13 سپتامبر | +6 | |||
| 12 سپتامبر | +3 | |||
| 11 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 10 سپتامبر | 0 | |||
| 09 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 08 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 07 سپتامبر | +1 | |||
| 06 سپتامبر | +5 | |||
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پستهای کانال
| 2 | The Sane Ones
A.R.ABDULLAH
They call us crazy when we stare at the rain,
when we talk to the moon, when we dance with our pain,
when we follow a dream that can't promise a name,
when a heart full of fire won't behave like a flame.
They call us insane for believing in more,
for sleeping on rooftops and dreaming of doors,
for finding a universe under the floor,
for asking what living is actually for.
But maybe we're sane,
maybe we're sane,
maybe the madness is part of the brain.
'Cause what kind of sane world
teaches children to lie,
to bury their wonder,
to swallow their sky?
What kind of sane world
calls dreaming a crime,
then sells us a clock
and calls wasting it time?
So let me be crazy.
Let me be strange.
Let me keep stars
where they tell me to change.
Let me write poems
on bus rides at night,
and cry over strangers
and sunsets and light.
I don't want a life
that is perfectly clean,
with nothing that trembles
and nothing that's seen.
I'd rather be broken
and painfully real
than perfectly normal
with nothing to feel.
Under the pressure,
under the skin,
something is screaming,
something begins.
Under the silence,
under the shame,
a beautiful madness
is whispering my name.
Maybe the dreamers
are sick with a cure,
maybe the poets
are wounded but pure,
maybe the ones
who can't fit in the frame
are the only ones asking
why there's a frame.
And maybe humanity
isn't being sane,
maybe it's feeling
the unbearable rain,
holding another
while both of you fall,
and saying, “I'm here,”
when you've got nothing at all.
The madman sees roses
inside of the stone.
The poet hears music
when walking alone.
The child sees a kingdom
where others see dust.
The lover still reaches
when reaching means trust.
So call me a lunatic.
Call me naïve.
Call me a fool
for refusing to leave.
If madness means keeping
the heart when it breaks,
then give me that madness
for all that it takes.
Because somewhere beneath
all the noise and the need,
beneath all the numbers
and hunger and greed,
there's a wild little heartbeat
that still wants to know:
Is this all there is?
Is this all we can be?
Or is there a stranger,
more beautiful sea?
And if chasing that question
is losing my mind,
then let me get lost
where the dreamers still find
a little bit of heaven
in ordinary things,
a bird on a wire,
the rain in the spring.
Maybe the crazy
aren't crazy at all.
Maybe they simply
still answer the call.
Maybe the sane ones
are those who can see
how strange it is,
to be human,
to hurt,
to love,
to dream,
to bleed,
To fall,
How strange it is to be anything at all. | 103 |
| 3 |  بدون متن... | 153 |
| 4 | i stared at your pictures for hours - i don t know why.mp3 | 163 |
| 5 |  بدون متن... | 160 |
| 6 |  بدون متن... | 199 |
| 7 | sticker.webp | 1 |
| 8 | يعني محد يريد | 7 |
| 9 | منو يريد تبادل شباب | 26 |
| 10 |  بدون متن... | 270 |
| 11 | 09 Leonard Cohen - Suzanne.mp3 | 272 |
| 12 | Oh to see without my eyes | 292 |
| 13 | Tender
A.R.ABDULLAH
I keep a little room inside
where all my broken versions hide,
they sit beneath a yellow light
and wait for me to come at night.
One wears the face I had at ten,
one asks if we'll be loved again,
one holds a flower, dry and blue,
and says, I thought they'd make it through.
Oh, honey, I don't know, I don't know,
where all the tender people go,
when they have given all they knew
and still the world just lets them through.
I learned to laugh, I learned to sing,
to make a home of little things,
a cup of tea, a bird in flight,
a song that keeps me warm at night.
But underneath the melody,
there lives a quieter part of me,
a little animal in rain
that doesn't know its own name.
And I have loved with both hands wide,
with every door unlocked inside,
then watched the wind come through the hall
and wondered why I gave it all.
Oh, darling, don't you cry, don't you cry,
the moon has never asked the sky
why it must leave before the dawn,
some things are beautiful and gone.
I wish I were a river stone,
worn smooth by water, left alone,
with nothing in my chest to prove,
no fear of losing what I love.
But I am only skin and bone,
a frightened heart that wants a home,
a thousand little prayers unsaid,
a thousand ghosts beneath my bed.
So if you find me far away,
with half a smile and nothing to say,
please understand,I'm not unkind,
I'm just somewhere inside my mind.
And if tomorrow comes too slow,
and all the flowers fail to grow,
I'll take my hand, I'll hold it tight,
and be my own way through the night.
Oh, honey, I don't know, I don't know,
how long a broken heart can grow,
but somewhere underneath the blue,
a smaller voice is saying, you,
you are still here.
You are still here.
And maybe that is all
the lonely need to hear. | 344 |
| 14 |  بدون متن... | 269 |
| 15 |  بدون متن... | 318 |
| 16 | http://t.me/SY8Bot?start=10RSRGSbGh | 315 |
| 17 | Dirty Beaches - True Blue(MP3_70K).mp3 | 296 |
| 18 |  بدون متن... | 334 |
| 19 |  +1بدون متن... | 433 |
| 20 |  بدون متن... | 345 |
