pilgrim

Laying a cloth cover, for the praying stone
A white dove is sleeping there
I give her a kiss
Then, she goes to dead goat's thorn,
to say night's prayers of a desert.

Like ever ,the aroma of a stew you have made,
made with offering stars' meat,
attracted All moths to your fingers
Though,your song is imprisoned in the clay pots,
which are filled With springs, and old lanterns

Now after years
within the winds only the elegy Of sheep and
Lost camels can be heard.

The white dove is sitting nearby,
on your gravestone
we are praying,
suddently,
From corners to corners
Ears of wheat resembled your eyes'color blooming.