Tuesday, March 18, 2014

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.