He was tilling the field
Black soil for cotton yield
'Since time immemorial'
I told her, as a peasant
Putting on her head, a crescent
My cotton, you are my boll
I laughed.seeing her face
And the eyes roll
With a peculiar droll
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the rhyming. Bien!