When the birds come back,

When the birds come back,

 I remember your black eyed.

When the rain comes down,

I ask, perhaps a refuge to find

When the wind rustles rapidly,

I got shock in my mind

At each cracking on my door my heart did throb

As a faint nestling looks for a glimpse of hope   

Perhaps you are here or there

But I am closely to your chant adhere

At any breeze I inhale, I swear by God

You are the lost figure of my dream

You are my night and my dawn

You are the spring everywhere

You are the chant over all outstretched fields.

The natural pastures that never were harvested

A feminine bosom of nature forever is splendid  

The wing of smart pigeon brought me a letter:

It contains a verse never can be spotted

A verse from a novel of lovers was quoted

Neither Sindbad had it, nor any sailor noted.       

What is to call you then my spring?

A malady, yet compassion, or the figure of the sleep

Which journey or flight you ask to soar?

Which foot was trodden over our sandy shore?

I am here with you as the vein to bone.

Don’t you know me?

I know you well

I know you well

You are my unforgettable pain.

You are my land and my seashore

Are you snobbish because you are rich and I am just poor?

*****    ******     ****

As the unstopping hands of O'clock

As a rain,…as a wind… as a mystery joke

What does it mean you give me out of your book?

Never shall I smoke, if the desert still filled up with smoke

You are the never closed book of my journey to read

What other than this sincerity, do you need?

Indeed, I remember you with each drop of my sweat.

Yes, I remember you with each throb of my heart.

 Your gracious figure, your charming voice yet I repeat

I do repeat your name to the distant whitish clouds

I do repeat your name to the adjacent lovely mounds

With water sound, with the murmuring of a soft breeze

I repeat, but the echo does not give any fact of ease.

What morrow does restrain us not to giving back?

Is it the furnace of life or our given lack?

Beside me, there is honour and infatuated charm

Beside you, there is plowed hospitable farm

Roses and plentifully yards of grape vines will tell

A door never keeps you surrender to the tone of hell.

Keep away from hearsays and the ravaged news.

Here I am, sat bashfully crying near thy ruins

What is to call! The echo advises me not to return.

To ask about our little departed youth, I would come again

Perhaps I come once time against the law of the flattering truth

To know the reason beyond of this unsettled occasion

Then I would mention, in fact I would mention

I would ask the sun, I would ask the passers

I shall ride the horse that is going faster.

Devotedly to ask the child who is bashful to see the light

And when his cheek blushes, the sun will shine at night.