Why ask about the condition of fakirs like us?
We are water, separated from its river,
Emerged from a tear,
Melancholy, distressed.
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Thank you... great job... I was searching for english translation of these poems... You made my day sir... thanks a lot sir...
People listen to my songs, But call me a heretic, Because I named pain my kaaba, And sorrow, my god. call me a heretic. i write about my pains. a fine poem. tony