Grandma’s wrinkled hands
I kiss Grandma’s wrinkled hands My little head Becomes a hundred years old.
I kiss Grandma’s wrinkled hands My little head Becomes a hundred years old.
The clouds outdistance me The birds fly faster away Alone on the grass I lie
ثــــوب الـدرويـــش يــمــسك بالأرض يــديرهــا فتتــيه The robe of the dervish Holds the Earth tight Turns it; it goes astray
دوار الــنــــشوة يــصـــيــب صــــانــع الــفــخــــار يـــغــدو مـــزهــريـــة Dizziness of ecstasy Hits the pottery maker. He becomes a vase.
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