Gravel was the road
And worn out after work
The man was, he was Old,
Ramadan, Afternoon
A Muslim in fasting
Like pray, he bent, rose
Held his hand to his lips
Unfolding his right palm
Looked and kissed
In a hole in the wall
He buried what was found
(On the ground)
On the ground
He had found
Small piece
A slice of bread
The rule said:
“Shall not waste! ”
He fasting could not eat
So buried what was found
Graveyard was the wall
That was it
His culture
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem