When homeland faded away, the rivers of its dreams disappeared, the soul lamented its being rusted, the teeth of its whales whiz, distressing the beautiful dreams, it is overwhelmed by chaos, contained in the orange blooms that escape the ash of frustration, in the far, it changes the clothes of its grieves, to be a companion, it aspires for you to decode the mysteries of its laughter usurped streets, how majestic the rock of exile is! crouching to close the doors of day wishes, its ruthless grin confiscates the shine of the dawn, it is suddenly overtaken by the frost of silence, appealing for the compassionate salvation, like a butterfly breaking the dark of the cocoon, as greedy as light to hasten the secrets of emancipation, waiting for Don Quixote* to whip the horses of madness, ridding the princesses’ treasures of the grip of numerous grieves, which are by wind borne, the tenderness of fear burdens the freshness of joy, so bewitched by the isles of sapphire, goes on fighting fiercely to preserve a conviction that demolishes delusions, racing with her musically tuned pale tear, as radiating to familiarize the gloom of tablet-inscribed time, sneaking scent that saddles the pulse, slaying the dark, stricken by thickets of the spittle, we pour the epics of love wine that melts the steel of myths outside time, we are here alone, arranging lamps of the Unseen, filled with cantos of orotund unification, we melt together, despair slaps a harbinger that chants the birth of our new skies, contending the revival of the fertility seasons, Who experienced the burning of love, lightens the whirl of desert whose horses breed the neighing of whispering springs, shaking the thrones of compassion, harboring the ups and downs of my alienation, at the outskirts of the rising of joy, we tear the lust of the exiles of fog, we, hurriedly knock at the doors of miracles, soaring high, embarking on the horizon of the clove branches by the sap of the stars holiness, hovering round the rhythm of the heart, revelations that are accustomed to domes of fascinating songs, we cocoon together one womb accompanying the shadows of the sun that prepares the resurrection of the queen of the soul butterflies, at the beginning of the morning, we wash up the purity of craving of meetings, we sprinkle the pouring of embers of eagerness, a drop whose rivers run on the breasts of our dawn, her beaches dance, repaying the bills of the beauties of the past disappointment, so that we can wash up the cruelty of the present by eyes water and close the doors of grief.
Translated by me John Henry Smith
