Today, market closed,
Panting in loss of our kinsmen,
Here they are, in splashing dust of clay wrapped on their face,
See their coffin, the last apartment for the travellers,
They are on a journey, eternal journey,
Hand encapsulated in vanity,
Today, market cease to open,
When soil called upon the soul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem