In the evening darkness, nomads pitch their tents
How carefree they are about their camp and destination
no place, no village
can ever bind their feet on the chariot of the sun
their belongings are always laden
Amazing is the romanticism of their wandering life, made of the combination of the simple and the complex
the unparalleled playfulness that
holds the world at bay
occupied like stony sorrow
there is no shadow of a life of deprivation in their eyes
every moment of pain is a beautiful art for them
heads held high on taut ropes
the movement of their eager feet
eager to fly like the wings of birds
their arms, exultant,
when with a humming sound
challenge the directions then the invisible mountain unknown In the breath of rivers
The primitive scent of sweat begins to swell
In the caves of history
The music of living stones bursts forth
The valleys of the land of the land
Resonate with the melody of life day and night
In that moment of extreme absorption
In one rhythm, one beat
The earth turning on its axis
Riding on the chariot of the sun
Watching the family unblinkingly
Filled with an unprecedented thrill
From the Stone Age to the Atomic Age
On the bridge of air
Pitching the tents of civilization
Forging the story of courage
They are unaware
Of all these actions and reactions
They do not know
On how difficult the conditions of life
Their identity rests
How difficult it is to be recognized
Like a trembling string in taut ropes
Creating a sway
In a posture of time-searching
Being with time
