It pounds, when dust
sleeps, a song of wind starts.
The falcon eyes wait for the kill.
The wheel was not
moving on the blood road beyond
the swirling desires.
It goes too far, the
promise of rising from ashes
after the perceptive pain beautifies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A terrific poem dear poet. Eyes of the falcon makes this poem wonderful.