My desert

My desert is full of with weapons.

My desert is full of with smoke

Wherever you go

You smell the gunpowder

Neither you should rest

Nor you can go ahead

At any moment

A tidal deluge could be intruded

Seabirds hardly could be going round.

Thieves, smugglers patiently do alike

None of them work individually

They work as a malicious cancer

Stubbly ground after a harmful harvest

Near our well there is fruitless fig tree

Shaken up by the wind until death

Rooted up no green leaves remain

Even the greenlet doesn’t come again

The boys go out to play but alas

No green yard would be useful

Frustrated and they keep away

Waiting the moon to shine again

Perhaps a funny desire comes back

They draw a feather-like as a longbow

Frightened as a shaky wetted nestling

While the willows down had sever whistling

Came around as if it had convalescence

Whilst the thick- clouds turn damp

From everywhere they accumulate

Sweeping the ground with maladies

The sun disk as if it was bashful

Due to its hindrance it felt sorrowful.

Wives beside their muddy- furnace

Look round asking for their sons

Either they were prisoners or killed

And the sun disk is still watchful.

Spinning in its place doesn’t move

Alarmingly it curses the moon

Frighteningly it delivers sickly rays.