As much as the wind blows in depression
One hand still accumulates pure touch
In a faint hope, in a festival of light in the shade of the sun,
I find the language silently.
Your black hair is always wrong
My pain is the paper flower I like.
All the business is over with one letter
When I stood in your yard
Speech in a sweet breeze moment,
I am returning to melancholy.
Our stories are shrouded in contemporary unrest
When the craftsman of creation is on the verandah of a civilization intoxicated with destruction
Asifa then deepens the night full of inert devotion,
The death of a poet full of our jungle violence is in the poem of incapacity.