Photoplotnikov
The sound of green footsteps is the rain
They're coming in from the road, now
Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert
Their breath burning, mirage-mingled
Mouths dry and caked with dust
They're coming in from the road, now
Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain
Joy departed from their faces
Hearts old and lined with cracks
No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips
Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes
O God!
Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,
the vaulted heavens?
The sound of green footsteps is the rain.
Nadia Anjuman
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