It’s only a ridge just yet meaningfully,
Created in the fabric of the desert,
By the moving winds, akin to,
The reality of a defined space,
That lies at the dry and the set,
Of the light that was there, not much now,
And highly unreal time whose,
Dimensions manipulated by iniquity.
The dunes move themselves,
Shifting and moving with speed,
That wanders too wondrous.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem