The night is cold, old & grey,

but my thoughts would not let it die.

A tear trickles down my cheeks to water

the stands of joy, withering in my heart.

See, if life is a desert,

every man carries his own oases in his eyes

&chews the dust raised by his feet for survival.

My kinsmen,

I have seen the branch from which the birdsโ€™ songs

fell & broke in pieces, but I may be unable to reach it,

for the sole of my feet are sore from trekking

but this one thing I know for sure; I shall return

from this journey with the head of death on my shoulder.