In the desert heated
of fates of sand
In golden coffins crowds
of dead days fly.

The Arabs touch themselves
with touchy hands.
At the dry horizon
sadly kiss each other.

The caravan of souls
As a colour female shawl
Touch it with a cigarette
You'll make a hole of cries.

Smile in a side manner
Because you're still outside
When you enter there
Your dream will end.

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