When I put my first step
In a novel burg
I look for a country-liquor store
Thereafter moving to some old bookshop:
I suck the burns
Of failed poets.
Sympathizing their life
I move ahead to the finest restaurant
And ask:
Oi mate, what's special here?
But when I cross the flower market
Of the old city
I picture them calling me a Friday-priest.
Yet when I begged Allah for a red rose
He chuckled and handed over
The love of my life
As sacred as I dress before going to the mosque
On Fridays.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem