Drying River Beds Poem by yahya said

what if it was the only way I could get that peace in me
being far from your concrete noisy jungle; clubs, taverns and political arenas
being far from half naked scattered lasses of that fragment of my country
who think nothing but where they can get cheap astray rich dads
and milk their swollen nipples with greed, and less meant for lust

Blame not the carvers of trees on those high mountains
when the river beds become dry and full of cracks
rivers which once bursts their banks, and far grasses smiled for such
Blame me, you and those kids swerving on urban highways

Moral died and left us nothing to teach ourselves from
how can I preach while an open thigh glares at me?
will I achieve dignity when I tell my naked daughter 'your are gorgeous! '
souls are rusted, and the fire is less active to clean the rust in us

Who will revive the once healthy river of morals in our society?

I'll teach the carvers of trees how well to do it, astray dads
tell the urban lasses to respect their dead ancestors
or even trail the virgin Mary, who dresses well her veil
revive the drying river bed in you, before we all die in regrets and poor wishes