marg-e-rang (the death of colours)
The sun is shining, the plain how wide!
But void of herbs and trees, it is barren,
Except crows crowing at every side
Every sound has departed from this plain.
A dark spot trembles from afar, a blot,
Behind a thick veil of dust,
But when you advance and gaze at the spot
You see a man marching in the dust.
Tired from labor his body is in stress,
Besides, his body by dust is surrounded,
From thirst his throat is dry. In that place
His bare feet by thorns are wounded.
As he advances in the waste on and on
He can see a sea of water in the rim,
But when eyeing father in the horizon
It occurs to him that it is a dream.