A marble palace,
in a dead city.
The bluish doves packing
On the white sands
That used to be water,
a long time ago.
A pair of eyes,
already graying
In agony and pain.
And sill retaining,
its childish innocence.
Still, beautifully beautiful.
Sitting in a dark corner,
an orange baby.
Not a baby, in fact.
A child, resting
In the bosom of green weed.
Wearing a feroza dress,
her eyes full of love
For the muddy river.
O wind, stir stir her feroza dress
Until the night hides it,
beneath its dark bosom.
In a dark corner,
a feroza baby.
Not a baby, in fact.
A child, resting
In the bosom of dark dreams;
her eyes full of love for the child,
Resting in the bosom of green weeds.
And wearing an orange dress.
O wind, stir stir her orange dress
Until the night hides it,
beneath its dark bosom.