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 birds’ 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.
