We do not like it here on the earth
Our eager hands rise from our hearts
Our feet beat music out of the earth
But these shadows keep playing with us
Our music cannot break through the sky
We play our goat-skinned drums feverishly
We produce our living music from death
Our prayer hall is full of holes in the roof
We see fine particles playing in their beams
When it rains droplets from the broken sky
Fall into extended palms disturbing prayers
We do not like it here on the earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem