Then close to God, the pearly water on the face,
like a ghee lamp burning in the light of eternity.
We have woven vain palm leaves with our fingers,
our words are flowers, vines, birds, a single trust, an infinite sky, trusts would have crops.
Those cuckoo's secret compositions were then close to God on shackles,
now they are living in this house.
What should I do with this life?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem