Scythe of a moon
swings, between tall
palm leaves.
Wanting to see
the midnight fall
of white snow.
Never felt the
sadness of cold weather
when flurries fly.
Leaves had
assembled at the
funeral of the moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The most delicate, diaphanous blue spread over the desert. The sand was humbled and hushed in its presence. The camels were cleansed. The men held their jambiyas as if in prayer. Water passed through their dreams and quenched their flames in the night.